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  • Cole Stolte

Beach House

Waterlogged wooden beams held the house up high above the shoreline. Splintered steps lead up to the decaying front door, whose rusted brass knocker had fallen to the sandy deck. The carpet and couch smelled sweetly sour. Like a man made of ocean mist and sea salt had lived their for years. But I knew that I was it’s only inhabitant. Other than the occasional crab. The former vacation home, now vacant of its owners, was a haven for me. It held my secrets. It swallowed my stress. It understood me. How could it not? After all, it was abandoned and left to rot. Just as you abandoned me.

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