How is it your lips found mine

from a thousand miles,

in that sudden night warmth that wraps a person

in some late, dark fogs

while salt foam hisses closer up the sand?

How is it, stranger, 

there’s familiarity in the creases on your face, 

the new color of your eyes?

Proper ones on a beach 

may never know

what every particle of sand and

hidden star understands.

There’s this,

now,

nothing more-

the breaking, dying, spinning, softening, flowering..

It doesn’t get easier, or more beautiful.

Following fear

knocks agony into coves where

it never belonged.

Thank goodness for wind.

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