Amanda Westbrook. 20. West Palm Beach, FL. All I want is the sea.

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We are old now and we’re laughing and dancing on a front porch in a town where our only neighbor is the sea. The wooden boards creak under our weight and I appreciate their support on such a blissful summer afternoon.
I have never been the graceful ballerina I dreamed of being when I was younger, but I did find Prince Charming, who of course leads me through the music with ease. I still trip over my feet at every swirl and back step, but we giggle at my clumsiness.
The breeze sticks on my tongue and it tastes of sea salt and your cigarette smoke.
We’re younger again when I shake myself from my idle thoughts and I realize you have been staring into my withdrawn eyes for who knows how long.
Slipping back to reality, I cup the side of your face in the palm of my hand and I don’t know what the future holds, but my god, I want that peaceful place with you.

I am finding it increasingly difficult to think with all this sea water in my head. The waves are persistent and while being knocked down more than enough times, I stay. It’s endurance is unwavering.

I trust the flames the saltwater ignites in my nose and the soreness in my throat, begging to be quenched. I am surrounded by water that I cannot subsist off of. It is oddly fulfilling, however. I am a seperate entity of this blue mass, but the way my toes tangle in the sand and the waves greet me, I really am not sure any longer.

Nothing outside of this water makes sense. I don’t understand much about my fishy friends, either, but I know them more than my family.

When I gather my flesh to part ways, the open-mouthed ocean settles, no more battering waves to send me off. I step foot on the sandy shore and weep all the way down that boardwalk back to my rusted home.

I know it’s naïve of me to think that we will breathe forever, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to care when I have all these hearts and stars blocking my vision.

I perpetually envision occupying the same living space as you. Nothing would be white, we are way too messy of people for that, it would only stress us out. I have spilled one too many glasses of red wine to be considered “clean” and we both know that.

A bathtub that we never would want to come out of, so we soak our days away together, pruning in endless bubble baths with ocean scented candles illuminating counter spaces.

Our kitchen cabinets would be stocked with Lucky Charms, coffee grounds, and whiskey. Writer’s fuel. My menthols would never be far away, always ending up on a table nearby.

We would need a King sized bed to suit all of our play fights. When you’re away at work, I will take cat naps on your side of the bed. Your scent will linger with me all day to get me by. At night, our bed will become the safe haven for all of our secrets from the day. Secrets that our pillows will hold close and our hearts will hold closer.

Let’s face the facts, I am going to need an in-ground pool equipped with a hot tub on the side. We have fish blood, we need to be able to swim. Not to mention the midnight skinny dipping swims. Those will be fun. The hot tub will warm my frigid figure. Those are a definite necessity to my dream house.

Art, the ocean, will drown our walls with blue. You know it makes me uneasy to be away from the sea. I guess that it is not terribly relevant because when you hold me, all fear dissipates. You are my ocean.

Foaming blue bubbles and churns, never showing signs of a state of rest.

Frothing wave breaks unlock the boat’s secrets, the sea’s crests.

Fumbling for air, the waves are cruel, unrelenting.

Fighting the land, I seldom wish to be apart from my true love, the briny deep.

The sea snatched the unsuspecting child. It swept him out of his anxious stance and carried him until he lost sight of the shore. He put up a meek fight, a child’s fight. He kicked. He punched and splashed. The waves slammed into him, repeatedly. Knocked his soul out of him. Sucked his spirit out. He was not the same child when the sea returned him to the shore. Placed him gently back on his feet, even splashed his hair, equivalent to a pat on the head. The boy grew up and was never the same. He grew up with calloused skin. Salted. He was different. Winded.