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Do-over

Maybe I would have gotten more out of enjoying frivolous joys if I cried harder for it —

a foretold disposition towards my own attitude;


Image via Carrie Bradshaw


Three years ago, I told you about the beaches I went to three summers before,

the three that have passed since a semblance of vacation.

Back to back with carnival boardwalks, iffy beaches and pin-dotted pelicans, for what felt like the first time.

Now, six years forward and it’s almost a memory that never happened,

yet I still remember every abrasive grain of sand underneath my bare feet,

the roughness barely mitigated by the flush of sporadic waves;


Serenity had reached my senses too late,

my roadtrip-worn body detected the sweltering dog days before reaching Dover.

To my disappointment, no beaches on the east coast had:


“[a] tide [that] is full, [where] the moon lies fair.”


I found a hermit crab on Myrtle beach, he had a name and a pink bucket

or was it green? But either way, to my innocent dismay,

he did not make it on the way back home.

Maybe I would have gotten more out of enjoying frivolous joys if I cried harder for it —

a foretold disposition towards my own attitude;


The hotel pools, cushy beds, and frigid morning showers didn’t feel as meditative as your embrace.

Content is not the magnitude of how I would describe us,

your eyes remind me of greater seasides;

unlike murky waters, the deeper you look,

there is more wonder to seek within your inner splendor.

Blue, blue is everywhere,

Oh how the color blue drowns my pessimism, immersed in summer’s ambition.

Summer,

You were my summer.



 

Nicole Verbitsky is a 20 year-old writer from Northeast PA. A writer of bittersweet poems and the seldom short story, she also serves as a poetry editor for The Lunar Journal. At this time, her work appears in Neverland Lit and upcoming in voidspace zine. Her hobbies include over-analyzing media and reading with music in the background.





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