We walk to where dry bones criss-cross, masquerading as seaweed stalks. Morning is a sharp lemon-squeeze on the air, stings us awake. You reach for my hand; it is full of shells, so I keep it to myself. The sea is noisy company, your words lost in backwash over and over. I don't try to catch them. We rest by pools, for you to show me creatures: little lives skittering, translucent. The thought of them makes me itch. You lean in, cup my face in your hands. You tell me I'm glowing, that you want to taste salt on my skin, that you still love me. I hear the words, but all I can see is dark rock, all about our feet, full of thousands of tiny holes.
Marie lives with her husband, three sons and their saggy baggy cat. She walks in the nearby fields and writes in the shed. She has short fiction featured or forthcoming in The Birdseed, Re-Side, The Cabinet of Heed, Gastropoda, Moss Puppy, Free Flash Fiction and more. Marie also has poetry in several literary magazines. Twitter @jamsaucer