Flying at Tree Level

Coming home sucks. This time it does, at least.
Maybe it makes it easier.
No missed calls, no messages to return... less work for me I guess.
Right.
But also, no more nights of bonfires and beer on the beach.
No more sleeping so close to the ocean that the waves sing me to sleep.
And no more learning about the history of aviation at Kitty Hawk(even though I only really believed that man could fly after I met you.)

Sand falls through my toes like time in an hourglass.
It sounds cliche, but I think I just made it up.
As I look around me, everything is illuminated in perfect darkness.
Everything seems permanant like footprints in the sand on the edge of the ocean.

The waves sound far away, but I imagine them reaching far in from the shore and swallowing us up, because then I'd know what exactly I had to do - try to stay afloat - even though I guess that's what I'm doing anyway.

The ocean wears away at rocks, making them smooth and faceless--
An interesting contrast from what time does to people; it adds more shape and definition with each great wave that hits our shoreline, until we are finally swept away for good, to return only as seafoam in others' memories.