I can't tell, can see; the shroud lifted from you so fast, like a smog sucked away in a flash. And it's good like liquid sun in and around the air, breathing with each intake of air (fills your lungs and you're a new you, a better you, a sullen you and a brimming you filled with glee on the edge, riding into the sun, into the end of the horizon with a black cape and you're gone. You're God.) (Was I the only one? Somewhere in the leaves looking out- a flash from the sun? lightning and storm? An image from the future of your eyes forlorn? Who knows, who knows, only the sky and the clouds, and they don't tell you until you reach up and kiss them on the lips.)
We would dive in, crystal blue around us and swarming, swirling, lazily and slowly, but fast enough for us. It'd grab us up and lick us clean, pick our minds, wipe them down; it would scrub our souls. I remembered it's touch each time the ocean curled around my toes on the beach; no one could see me, and I was alone. It's mostly like that. The sun smiles back, you're in it; are you? Can you smile with me?
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