There is a beach in the north of Spain

that I want to take you to one day:

A stone-cradle oasis

like cupped hands

with singular intentions

“come as you are.”

Here the water is a palette gone perfectly wrong,

A rushed stroke with a heavy hand

allowed evergreen leaves through the gates of heaven—

the happiest of mistakes are still blue.

There are no lines, only gentle curves in this place—

there is no need for boundaries where the only obligation is to be.

A place where life thrives so passionately it is silent,

except for the waves who whisper amongst themselves

which nautical things have come to pass beyond the rock.

And of course there’s the rock:

frosted with green fuzz and

the only defense in this place from the infinity of the horizon.

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