Feeling wanted is a drug. The call of the void is a drug. If sweat or tears do not cure the longing, maybe the sea will.
I stand with my toes in the sand, waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
The water rushes out to meet me.
I watch, I feel it happen as though time has slowed.
It reaches my toes first, biting and cold, sweeping over them. It washes over my feet, covering them, swallowing them, and then it moves past me, beyond me. The ocean does not notice me, it does not care for me. It surges out onto the beach as far as it can, completely indifferent to my presence.
The water rises up to my calves, to my knees, the froth bubbling and nipping at my fingers that hang by my sides. I imagine the ocean does notice me, that the little white bubbles are rising up to greet me, that they missed me.
I take a step out. My foot drags out of the cool sand, leaving a deep impression, a fleeting impression…
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