Rx#: Sea M I K A E L A G R E S T Y, B R YA N T U N I V E R S I T Y
The ocean calls, smells, like rosé aged with salt. And see the water begin where I end. Swallowing those thoughts and dreams, that trampoline from brain down to chest to distend. I let the sand, fingers, suck my feet deeper. Encasing, and concurrently revealing a fluid mirror, foamed over, half distorted of what could have been. Granulate hands climb, whisp, up my skin, tickling the hairs like a lover once did.
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B R YA N T L I T E R A R Y R E V I E W