She’s the sunset air at the beach.

I haven’t taken a photo of a sunset beach yet, but I do have this pretty one of sunset on a mountain! Hope it’ll suffice. šŸ™‚

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She reminds me of home. Not my home, or her home, just the idea of “home”. She can talk for ages and I can sit for just as long, basking in the drama of her escapades. As I’ve gotten to know her better, I’ve realized that a few of her stories are tinted blue. When she tells them, I can almost hear the way the words tilt towards the past.

Sometimes, I can catch a glimpse of her soul between the syllables of her tales and the sound of her laughter. It’s exactly the way the ocean bends sunlight at dusk. I’d like to keep looking at the glitter on the horizon, the seafoam on the shore, but the glimpse lasts only a moment before I’m reminded that sunset means its time to return home.

I think, perhaps, she likes the peace of the empty twilight beach, which is why sunset is so clearly demarcated in her stories. So, when she begins to speak with those notes of sunset playing against her breath, I know it’s time to leave her home for mine.


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