incise Ellie Fisher
the sea. the heavy, swollen mass of it, the energy. the knife cuts away. they walk, silenced, the wind thieving any stray words. the distance between them. the beach is eaten away, hardly any sand to tread through now. it used to be wider. it’s narrowed. the aperture is closing, time draining with the exhalation of the tide. she stops him. a photo? he nods, smooths a blown lick of crow hair. she aims. the moment is snatched. her visceral need to catalogue is satisfied, her inability to let go. he laughs at something; she misses the joke. a breath of peppermint and smoke, amongst the seaweed dampness. the tension. their balance must be maintained, the magnetic push-pull. he raises his eyebrows, stretches out a hand. it might never be enough. he knows. he knows that. awkwardly, he traces her cheek.
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