is the cold of my cheeks
the wind giving violent life to hair
swirling sand at our feet, in my shoes
the chaste presses of sun dabbed at the waves, our eyes, our backs
running to waters edge
there is no room for subtlety —
we scream so that we might be heard
before the sky takes our voices
to be so serious about being silly 
there must be something about the salt
and the colors of set
birds casually silhouetted the sky
too cold, too windy, too everyday
WE ARE FROM CALIFORNIA
i know it doesn’t make sense
but does it have to?