I can't stop walking. Street after street not registering. Wooden benches mossy with damp don't stop me. Gusts encircle my strides that refuse to slow, to bend their will
What do you call the space between sex and love? The middle-ground that clouds my vision and makes me question every look, every statement, every minute. When the passion has subsided
The sun sinks into the clouds and hugs them close. Seagulls sweep into the murk searching for sustenance amongst the stockpot of seaweed and snapped twigs. The rocks crunch beneath my feet