Face in the sand and I keep wondering what sort of corpse I’ll leave behind. Aged and worn, with colors and scars and indentations and asymmetry. Soft palms. The kind you’d feel gently rousing you from a nap in the sun. Velvet. That word won’t leave my head. Crushed velvet. Worn velvet. The sound it makes when it rubs against itself.
Written August 8 2018. Honeymoon Island State Park.