The thin black water

The thin black water pulls away from your hands, slowly undressing itself from you across your arms and your hair washed forward and your burning eyes filled with the softened haze of white morning. It is not awakening. Things are not other things. Events are not other things. It is the water pulling back, leaving you. You are heavy and there is nothing to you. The heaviness is inside somewhere absent. Youve taken on water. The sand is damp underneath your body. You put your cheek in it and sink enough to leave a mark in the shoreline. You look up the beach to the dry sand warming full of light and bare white feet laced with succulent veins, green in a barren morning. Even with all of the false starts at day as it moves on naturally, it creeps. You inch through the twirl of the sun and unlacing of the clouds. When it is all moving over you and you lay or stand, rotating on all axes in liquid air, packed in smooth sand, it moves quickly and you know that as it passes you by you are being fixed in space with a gaze. An eyeless white head shines over you. The sand in your shadow is still damp. You are in my day.

The days are reflections. You cant place yourself in any of them. Each is more populated than the last. Each reflects each until you no longer appear in them at all. Still lives from a world of sunlight and sunlight filled clouds fill in your shape. You dont see things anymore. They are within or behind you. You have had them make you. If the sky is there, you are there. If the sand is there, you are there. The streets are too long for one day. The heat rising off of the horizon reflects the sunset or the days old sunrise far down the road. Everything focuses into a single body, enormous, yet immaterial, happening all at once in an equilibrium that renders itself and its contents insignificant. If all of the light, and all of the events, and all of the hopes of the days and days return to you, as to everything else, you are relieved of the burden of causing anything. You have no more future responsibility than all that has played out behind you, and that is all gone. It only exists in the glimmers of a damp eye where the receding tide flashes in reflection. You see an instance, your hands form claws in the sand and you let your hair fall across your face. You are waiting. I am seeing it.

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