The Slightest Touch
I sit in the sand, the ocean waving in my ears. The sun beats hot against my skin but a playful breeze blows my hair away from my blank white page.
There was a wind and rain here yesterday, yet you wouldn’t know it from first glance. The sky is clear and the air is dry. There are only hints of nature’s changeability, hints of the truth.
The sand is glimmering and hot to the touch. Only when you dig deeper can you feel the cold truth; heat has not been so persistent as to rid of the rain’s evidence yet. The clearest evidence, however, is the sand not yet trodden. In these small patches, the sand is still clumped together from rain, their many grains sealed as one even after they’ve dried completely.
These clusters appear solid, yet crumble under the slightest touch.
And here, again, I find that I am the sand. You are the rain, a force to behold that came through and left, changing me in the process.
Now, I am here. I crumble under the slightest touch.