blue shift

In Tunis, we walked down the pebbly beach. After all, we have been beautiful in the past before. And will be beautiful again. On the farm it seemed to flow, the noon for example. But the afternoon would never end. Grain silos were streaked by tedious textures while the bristling tree frogs were getting out of hand. During volcano season this would not have been as strange as it sounds unless one is accustomed to sweating off ones intellect. I looked to my left and you had already receded beyond the terrace of palms.

When growing things popped up all over the place we figured we were safe. Imagine a thing like that: rays which could be left on tablecloths in smudges like bread crumbs or monsoons. Whole barrels of nightingales bathed you in their Petroglyphs. You came out like a glassy pool, a blue after image, and filled the water glasses. In the low lands the whole back side of the city slid into the sea. Now you bathe in moons. I said that I only want to hold you once without wearing out our elbows.

We felt our way across the dock. You thought the floor was a surface since you claim to have 'broken through' on many occasions. I supposed this was the effect of water droplets suspended in the atmosphere. Yes, it was the surface that consumed us.