The ocean breathes in and out, making the sun brighter against itself. The sand brings me to my ankles. There is laughter, slight smoke reaching toward the sky he drifted off to not more than six months ago.
And they recollect. They reorganize through sun and beach and barbeque- against half naked bodies and places all familiar.

Then they separate.
And meet again in the middle muffled by more unabridged laughter and faint hints of salty air from the afternoon.
With beer goggles in tow, the night begins.
The music grows loud, moving through veins and arteries, reminding bodies they're not so weak, pumping volume and beats to replace blood.

Then bodies sway;
they move a little less than reckless, mirroring one another (making more waves).
And I could do this all the time-- not the drinking, but the laughter and the movements.

And even though I'm enraptured by the changes [pure fermented wheat brings], I'm conscious enough to know it's gone by the morning.

But the ocean still breathes, in and out, just as our bodies will too. And even without the alcohol, we still cling to one another (just not so freely) (and not as close).