A cove on the Costa Brava
I raise my eyes and see you in front of me. On the sand. Your 1940s star body shining like a neon sign under the late afternoon sun. The sun asking permission to touch you. The sun afraid of your tanned skin studded with ice needles and bleeding daggers. In any cove on the Costa Brava, a Senyera waves exhaustedly above us. The red and gold bars stir wearily. The light breeze that wants to be Tramontana moves them under the sunset rays, then goes down to slide burnt, so delicate, over the dwarf waves of the blue sea, then green, white, and the joke waves break weakly against the rocks. Blow, blow, blow. The lost cove. The dreamed-of beach. A boy with golden hair plays around us. You smile. A second. A sigh. Nothing.
