May tastes salty, a mixture of tears and the sea. The ocean wears away the land one grain of sand at a time. The wetness on my face could be either.
May smells like burnt toast. Singed edges; a bitterness that makes it almost unpalatable.
May is resentment. The anger of an unhealed wound, the hollow space where strength once resided.
May sounds like the wind. Wild and angry one minute whipping my hair into a frenzy, deceptively calm and still the next. Tense muscles ache with waiting.
May is an empty seat. A sorrow defined by its absence as much as its presence. The void grows with every unplaced call.
May is grief. Swirls of seafoam blue, the deep of a stormy tide, the horizon feels endless.
May feels like sand, gritty and sharp. It lingers, clings to my skin. Washing it away is the only relief.