Friday, August 14, 2009

On Absolute Peace

It smells like smoke: campfire, cigarette, flare, pot. And the ocean, salty breeze too cool when too far from the fire pit. So many conversations flit about, running into and on top of one another. Dirty sand stains bare feet black.

In the midst of all of this: tranquility.

Her head against his chest,
he breathing in the scent of her hair,
kissing the top of her head,
his arm fitting perfectly around her shoulders,
fingers playing and entwining with one another.

Absolute peace.

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