Toes

These are last days for us.

We're not being torn apart by a crushing illness, chasing after time, desperate for every last drop of it whilst something malignant and malevolent whittles one of us away. It's not the tides that are tugging us one way, the other way. Not hatred. Betrayal. A grim call of duty for loved one or country.

Nope.

None of that.

It's just us.

Look at us. We're picture perfect. We're as functional as they come. We inhabit a brave, energetic world. And we glide through it. It's like everything is easy for us. Every puzzle solved before we set pen to paper.

And it isn't enough. We both have this something inside us: it's empty and hungry, and the sum of our parts isn't enough to keep it tame. Maybe that's the way with our quick minds, our radiant competence. Enough is never enough. I don't even know what gold I want to dig for, and I don't think she does either. Just our fingernails want to dig.

We come to the beach, just shy of sunset, with the tide coming in, the water light and frothy as we dig our toes into the sand. Almost as if we could dig them into life, hold on a little bit longer. Because isn't this moment glorious? Her, so warm in my arms, her ash-blond hair flickering in the wind. Her skin is soft to touch. The way her head rests against my arm. The peace. The endlessness. The sifting rhythm of sea against sand. Her toes scrunching into it, brushing against my toes. There could be a forever in that.

But we both know: tomorrow, the new light of a new day; we both know we're going to say goodbye.