Wet touch.

Liquid lines around the shore;

Wet touch.

A stranger until we’re in danger.

Light dances across the water –

following a plane.

Seven lights blink, not in sync, broken across the bay.

The smell of tobacco stains the air.

Breathing-in and out-heart unmatched; rhythm.

Toe tapping.

Gravel scraping.

A headlight shines through the musk of night.

Laughter cranes the atmosphere, just hanging, hoping.

Hands throw gestures in the sky.

What am I missing?

A passenger seat glance.

An eight-ball’s chance.

Wet touch.

M.

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