Palm trees sway on my way to the beach. Wind blows through my hair, gently, like a summer’s breeze. My feet walk a thousand steps in the high heat; blisters take shape in between my toes. Sweat glimmers and shimmers down; down my neck; my back; my breasts. Ice cream melts and trickles down my hand. Lick. A wet trail has been left where the cow’s milk called a home a mere moment ago. Children laugh and play; in the sand and between the waves. Watch the tide recede and the wave come back and kiss the shore again.
My home is what I know. My home is where I feel alone among empty crowds and sunny skies. My home is where the ocean meets the sky, for I think of you and I. My home is not a place, not a thing; but the sweet thoughts of summer days.