She walked the beaches at night barefoot. The sand was freezing cold. Not as cold as her pale soft soles. Back and forth under the night sky, sometimes looking up for meaning, sometimes looking down into the shapes of the ground for a contradiction. Still, she walked alone in the night. A lone seagull or two sailed above the small surf. She wished she could fly into the colors of the night. Black, purple, moonlight haze.
And she thought about the bow of his lips. How much bigger his bottom lip was compared to the top. How he loved to kiss her on her neck. And especially how it was impossible to think when she felt his lips touch her skin. She walked and walked, remembered and remembered. Nighttime was his.
That was her time to contemplate everything she had lost. Daytime was filled to the brim and over with work, go, go, go, and up, up, up. But night crept into the day and brought her spearing straight down back to earth. So she walked out of her little cottage to the end of the street where a white fenced opened to a quiet and pleasant beach. The surf was rarely high. How many times had she walked the path with her hand in his? Only the stars knew.
No one in daylight would have guessed what her thoughts revolved around when darkness hit. No one could have foreseen how soft her voice became when she whispered his name to the seas.
She missed him.
Just like she missed the sunlight, the warmth, the thought of being whole again. Just like she missed feeling his lips pressed against her forehead before she fell asleep in his arms.
She simply missed him.
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