Sidewalk meetings. Bike wheel spinning. Sunrays seen from the shade.
Paved streets under school uniforms and cheap cigars on twelve-year-old lips.
How can you be inside the water?
Cliffs are cracking under the sun and the salty foam that spills from your mouth.
The depth of the step you leave in the sand is just the size of your soul compressed by the weight of the body.
In that split moment, again, I would never return.
Don’t let them fool you, we should’ve stayed in that summer.
Like wall paintings. Seashells stains on the rocks.
Time was cheap back then and we laughed about the sieve in our hands. Water can be held, but evaporates. A small pond of time in your joined palms.
Hold it steady. Put a fish inside.
Bite the urgent release of water, eat it with your teeth.
Grab the drops of time.
Go back to the sea.
L. A. Pontes is a Brazilian writer living with his wife and six dogs on the bushy outskirts near the city of Belo Horizonte. His writing has appeared in Litro UK. He’s also a molecular biologist starting a new composting company to clean the world.