#suburnt

[env0]

I should have worn joggers to go kayaking cause I sunburnt my legs

3hrs of delta kayaking later I'm a lobster

[mic-keys]

That one time I got mad sun burned in Koh Tao 😂😂😂 That guy’s face tho

[maniclaughter]

I... I overerestimated how much sunlight I can take

[courage-the-cowardly-blog]

sunburnt and sleepy

[the-jack-of-blades]

I RETURN! And I'm red as a lobster. Shiza this hurts.....

[projectpen]

Lena Kassicieh ~ Sunburn.

She turned to the sea; the concentrated smell of salt permeating the air as it ascended, embracing the side of the cliff. The dress she wore, the blushing hue of fleshy pomegranates, pressed firmly to her body as the southern wind outlined her shape. Her curved frame felt luminous and flooded with warmth as he stood behind her, photographing her silhouette behind the sun, her hair waving like the tumultuous sea below.

Near him she experienced a nervous calm, a safety plagued with the elation commonly found in the first stages of adoration. His conduct was unlike most his age, as if he was neither bound to life nor was life bound to him. He photographed her in the arid, desert heat, as she stood against the wind, against the curved rocks the color of melted-caramel.

She felt that time could be bought, that only through the connection with a lover could one feel eternal. In their hours together, they slipped into a world filled with sprawling hills, tenderly lit by the sun as if by choice, the fresh smell of laundry, the bright crimson that lines your eyelids as you press them tightly together, long drives through the country-side, answered prayers.

Time being as ephemeral as it may be, she knew theirs was drawing to its immutable conclusion. In the back walls of her mind, she captured the way he looked at her, when she spoke or told a story, the way his inquisitive uncertain eyes questioned everything. She wanted to memorize the way his clenched jaw met his neck, seemingly battling for equitable attention.

The way the cigarette delicately balanced between his fingers, the hairs there dotted as if carefully assigned positions across his knuckles. “Time is relative,” she said, pressing herself into the wall, overlooking the city. The cars dotted below her reminded her of tiny sprinkles of life; dim and transient. She then turned to him, his face marked with an indefinite sentiment.

As do all things, it came to its eventual end.  She rose each day, a sinister force overflowing her organs, spreading the way an octopus’s ink does, in the pitch-black depth of the ocean. Suddenly it was impossible to breathe, sleep, drink, eat.

Those memories of their drives by the sea, of the conversations about time, of the moments smiling in bed, the feeling of euphoria, of “I could die in this moment”, their afternoon coffees, and the smoke breaks he would take after hours of talking, kissing in the cold pockets of her sheets, visited her every second.

She tried to escape the etched images of his dark, shadowy hands, as they reached for her in the night.Torn between holding onto him and letting him go, letting his memory be one held in high honour, one not to be forgotten, she stirred, fighting fighting fighting to remember.

As days passed, so did each first emotion, each confession, each wall she tore down so he could bare himself to her. As days passed, memory warped and distorted and construed against her. Until one day, she saw him in passing. Inadvertently, their fates had them meet again, and with a flicker of recognition in his eyes, he turned away. And so it sometimes goes, in love.

A story by Lena Kassicieh.