water aglow with the hand painted
Burnt oranges flooding the sky
Leaving no rock untouched
Leaving every ripple alive with a fiery Light
In the distance I can see the city
The town made entirely of
Paper and insignificance
One that seems so consuming and overwhelming within its own walls
But seems so erasable
And tangible from a distance
A handful of planes fly above our heads
And couples walk hand in hand
And I’m on the brink of a world so entirely full that it’s verging on greatness
It’s a series of almosts
Almost perfect
Almost night
But not quite there yet
Almost silent
But the gentle crash of waves keeps the sound alive
I never liked the word almost
Because it meant we fell short
Fell short of all that could be
But in a world completely built from it
I’ve learned one doesn’t need to be whole
To be grand
The ocean can’t tell the difference between broken and bruised
So what better way to feel alive
Than drown in unfamiliarity.