This trip

The air tastes salty
and the sweat tastes sweet.
We're a mass of tangled arms
and legs,
rolling in the salt marsh,
getting filthy. Mud
on our hands and feet,
sand in our shoes,
shells in our hands,
the seawater burning
our scrapes and cuts.
We are a different version
of infinite,
one that ends
just like it never was
to begin with.
We have wings in our dreams
and we fly over the sand dunes,
laughing at our bodies
fighting the waves,
two in a canoe.
Our stories will be written
on our legs by the
stickers in the forest,
the scars they leave
tell something longer lasting
than words can ever try.
We will grow and scatter
and always remember
the versions of truth
we created in a weeks time,
rather than a lifetime.
Too obviously comfortable
to be torn apart so fast.
Annoyed and past our limits.
But that's always the best
kind of story.
One that never ends.