The ivy cushions

The ocean is hungry. My feet sink in the sand, toes curled inwards. I want the sand to swallow me—to swim in the sand—to cut the water caressing my neck.

Eden comes over and unties the drawstring of my shorts. “Why don’t you relax?” ‘Relax’ he says. I’m always relaxed. Don’t you ever notice? “Hmm maybe I should.”

Every move is calculated but it’s all rubbish—all of it—sick of rubbish—nonsense of not trying means I can never fail. So I leave because I wait too long.

How do I always get it wrong? Progress should be much more natural, guaranteed. I don’t feel bad but that’s part of the problem. If everything fell into place, you would just know, you know what I mean? As it is, nothing is ever going to fully form.

Instead, it’s a matter of guessing, going by instinct and intuition. Poking a finger through and taking a rummage around—peering through the narrow opening—leering at the contrasts and gradients of darkness—the shades of dark—forever slanted—never abrupt—never manic—never outwardly excited—emotions skyscraper-tall demolished in seconds.

The tarmac is warm at touch. The ivy cushions—green darkened by a late night sky angles itself around a wall. Grass stands stiff and sways to the moving air. Houses are lazy and inviting. My fingers bounce between banisters and I sleep easily.