Writer
by Michael Keshigian



He imagines us on the beach,
soft sand at our feet
just after lunch
when warm rays and a delicate breeze
bid us rest.

He considers my arm around her waist,
my body sideways against bikini curves,
surrounded by seagulls
that squawk for attention
and the litter seas throw.

It’s been so long for him.
He has difficulty deciding
what may be real
and occasionally doubts
the idea of our very existence.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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