Starfish

We lied on beach towels by the shoreline,

head to head, eye to sky,

splayed out like starfish on the seafloor.

The wind that night was strong, blustery and erratic,

feverishly searching for a sanctuary to rest.

It curled in pockets of sand kicked out beneath itself,

weaved its way through the spaces between toes,

and flung itself into the gaping mouths of waves.

I willed myself not to be picked up by its tendrils,

caught up in the way it moved me.

Everything was always moving,

swaying me, the pinprick push at the dip in my back,

heels inching towards the edge of the creaking board.

I saw the fireworks erupt, cascading light and fire,

leaving a plume of dust in the air like a memory.

But a memory is empty, no substance you can grasp,

just a wisp of a smothered light.

Later, a friend would tell me that night,

while I lay staring at the empty sky afterwards,

he was overcome with awe for how beautiful the world could be.

We spoke of differents gods but prayed to the same,

of holiness and hope.

We are all starfished to something too great to grasp,

to reach is to be left longing, but to try anyway

is to be alive.