Brine and Rosemary

I wake up to brine and rosemary in my throat

And I remember the honey taste of figs, the syrupy sweetness of an overripe, heavy fig; salty-sweet taste of a mussel in a white wine sauce; warm, flaky, buttery pastries with melted chocolate centers; bittersweet coffee ice cream in a waffle cone, with a chocolate crusted coffee bean on top.

And I remember the silvery smell of lavender, hidden beneath the brine of the sea; sun-warmed, dusty tomatoes and sweet peaches; the dusty dirt road stretching seemingly endless; bitter coffee steaming in a mug; melted butter popping on the stove top, garlic and bay leaves wilting in it.

And I remember the waves crashing against the beach; the loud voices and hustle of the open air markets; the loud, boisterous conversations over cups of coffee; cicadas whirring into the evenings; warm breezes whispering through the tree leaves; gravel crunching under wandering feet.

And I remember the sea cradling me in her cool embrace; the salt crusting in my hair, even after being washed; the sun warming my shoulders as it darkens my skin; warm sand between my toes; the peace of being between sea and mountains, the two places on earth I love the most. 

I wake up with brine and rosemary in my throat

And I remember the best place in the world; the memories drifting slow through my mind, soft and faded; the shapes and colors sharpening and brightening from a fog; scents and tastes accosting my senses with a vengeance; blunted shapes of mountains floating in a blank space; the crash of waves roaring in my ears… 

And the yearning to return burns in my veins, like flames coursing through my body, the ocean pulling at my heartstrings, an ache in my bones that will only be eased upon return.