Bathing in briny air

The beach lies before us like a present screaming, "Unwrap me, I'm yours!" From above it looks like a discarded piece of watermelon, the cerise flesh devoured and the white and green husk all that is left, the half-moon beach and the trees. The breeze ruffles our hair like a kind uncle and we run holding hands to the water's edge. You whisper something to me, but a jealous gust steals your words away and hides them in a secret place where it can listen to them over and over and over again and wish for hands to hold and be held. No matter though, I always know what you've said, because I understand the shape and movement of your lips so well. I mouth, "I love you too." We are the only people on the beach, shipwrecked on a paradise, free of our vessels of work and worry, our lifeboats of cell phones and wallets and car keys broken to pieces on the reef, lost to all except inquisitive dolphins. You are laughing, and my heart sings.