Washed

I want to find the warm ocean current of my dreams, the one into which I dive and emerge spotless, everything washed away. The stickiness of summer and the grief of winter are no more; I see them floating out to sea on a tide of faint, faltering hope. It is not strong and cannot expect to be so for some time, but it is present. As am I. Present and prepared and breathing in the salty air of a new tomorrow. The sand rubs between my toes to loosen the hardest callous, the bitterest tear. I only hope that when I awake, such a place exists.

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