A Prose-Poem

(To be honest, the term used to confuse me. After finishing this, I'm rather enamored with the form.)

"Sunday Afternoon, 4:23 pm."

I drove to the beach by myself today, just to prove that I could, to see if the freedom I felt was really truth or fiction. Because, frankly, I'm getting sick of it dangling in my face, waiting, anticipation mirrored in a solitary breath til I could reach--but my fingers would only brush smoke, and I'd rock back on my knees and cry til I'm laughing.

I imagined what you would smell like, wondered if it would be anything like this, the scent of salt and sand and creatures living and thriving and rotting, all at once. Wondered if the touch of you on my face would be as warm and smooth as the breeze I breathed.

Wondered if the glare of reality would hurt like the sun on the waves, or harsher.