Theres something mystical about the empty bench with the missing post.

A story untold, tangible in the thick silence, broken only by whispers from the sea. In the corner of the ocean the waves swallow each other, and the roar of crashing water is just a faint memory. Salty mist extends an ethereal hand, fingertips trailing across weathered wood and soft skin; a kiss on the cheek. Flyaway hairs that dance in the fickle breeze are gently tucked behind ears, where they inevitably escape for the next song. Sunlight reflecting off rippling water, a welcome blinding light in this washed-out world. Sitting on the well-worn bench, I try to save this moment, cupped in my hands. But, like water, it trickles through my fingers, until only reminiscent droplets remain. And even those soon disappear, to mingle with the mist.