Daffni G


By the ocean he sniffs his fingers thinking of all the women he will never touch. There’s a bird swooping into the ocean and returning to the sand with something in its beak. This hunger doesn’t shift and even if it did he’d pull it back in. It’s another season another day there’s worm holes and cave men crawling through tunnels adorned with etchings fresh meat dragged behind them. Salt and wind and waves brings necks and breath, and sex. And then comes those treats his grandmother fed him and those Christmas mornings. Metal bones and distant music I can’t place because he’s more cultured than me. He’s alone but not really. He looks at his feet sinking with each step. This could be it this could be the end. His looks at his palms and uses his finger to slowly trace the line from one side to the other…

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