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A Sunday in Santa Monica

In 100, by Lara on November 4, 2018 at 5:31 pm

Smoky fog clinging to my skin
as it mists off the ocean surface
I lick the salt off of the freshly
roasted pumpkin seeds

Perching, cross-legged
over a terracotta balcony, I see
a man walking shirtless
two others trading sunglasses

The street signs have a certain flatness
static amidst the palm trees
I can only make out their silhouette
rendered monochrome in the haze

And not too much later, it starts to clear
the water still blending into the sky
but the boardwalk comes into view
and all this time, people have been there

such places exist without me watching

  1. The end of this feels like a zen poem.

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