we walk the beach on a crisp saturday morning,
your little fingers threaded through mine,
like the silken knots of a fishing trawl.
curls plastered against skin
sticky with seaspray.
you dip your toes into the sand,
picking it apart for sea glass
licked into iridescence.
the spoils of a shipwreck
or the discarded remnants of a drunken soiree,
vying for a place in your windowsill collection.
here in your world of flushed sunsets and symmetricity,
i am as inconsequential as smoke
from the candles you blew out on your sixth birthday.
blossoms curl between your lungs,
fluttering with each breath
with the desperate intensity of moth wings,
blooming forth from fingerprints
left by the hands that strayed far too close to your skin.
specks of kaleidoscopic sand,
still wedged beneath your fingernails
from torn down sandcastles.
yet there is still air left in your lungs
when the whitecaps tease your skin.
i gaze up at the moon
deep parasitic umbra
and send a plea up into the firmament,
for the world to hold you safe in its arms.
the gloaming beckons across the blushing sands.
i delve into the tides
and leave you amongst sandcastles.
By Seheni Kariyawasan
Seheni Kariyawasan is an aspiring poet and writer, studying at Boston University. She grew up in the little island of Sri Lanka and has dabbled in writing ever since she was a little girl. As a queer poet of color, she hopes to bring light to her experiences and those of others like her through her work.