Intermediate Memory

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This is an intermediate memory. Not the first memory of the sea when sand kept coming back home. Not the last memory of red salty water mirroring the sky that lost keys. It is the one in between when you walk to the coast with shapes you didn’t ask for, with voices and eyes not capable to hear and see you, with just noise of worlds not yours. All your lovers walking away from the sea with burning feet. All the birds of the sea with a secret, not yours. It is the cleanest tropical breeze your hair ever got entangled in, sunniest day your flower skin ever got a rash in. Coldest water your feet getting washed in. No marks of your feet left behind on the wet mud of a pale sea. No sand carried back home.

V Paliwal

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