"Harper Listening to the Sand"
Waking up at three in the morning to pee, I shuffle naked across the wood floor. My thighs stick slightly with sweat. The refilling toilet gurgles under a window cracked open to the sound of waves. I scratch my scalp and sand trickles down my neck. It clings under my nails, behind my ears.
Back in bed, I slide under the sheet and feel it again, just that little hint of grit between my thighs, the sting of salt on my sunburned skin. My face presses into the pillow and winces. The red ache of the sun still lives under my skin. I have a need to be held, but the sand disagrees.
You’re curled toward me in that way you do when you’re mostly (but maybe not completely) asleep, claiming space without asking. Or being aware of it. Sand rubs against my butt as your arm flops warm across my ribs, almost heavy. I shift but don’t say anything. I want to be held, but not by the version of you that's only here in the dark.
I close my eyes and think of cool water. I think of leaving. I think of staying. You breathe out, soft and steady. I pretend I’m not listening.
The sand is speaking to me.