I wake to the hum of the fan,
a thin line of sun
leaking around the blinds.
The air is soft but heavy,
the kind that clings to whatever it finds.
I make coffee,
stare out the window —
that wide blue sheet of ocean
glinting, endless,
mocking my smallness.
By seven I’m lapping the island’s rim,
as if trying to wear a groove in the sea.
The sun presses down—
white sand, bent palms,
tourists already in position,
bodies arranged like offerings to the sun.
The heat builds hour by hour,
thick as syrup,
pooling in the streets,
rising in waves from the blacktop.
Sun in my eyes,
radio off.
A slow whirl behind my eyes
begins and the island begins to spin:
People grip their towels,
cups tipping, ice sliding,
phones beginning to slip.
Beach umbrellas listing,
paperbacks skittering down the sand,
sunglasses flung into the surf—
voices rising, eyes scanning the air—
as if no one is quite sure what happens next.
This postcard morning.
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Originally Posted by tailor STATELY
