About

Amanda Westbrook. 19. 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We’re younger again when I shake myself from my idle thoughts and I realize you have been staring into my withdrawn eyes for who knows how long.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.

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.