Is it the salty water that stings my eyes? The sun lotion? Is it the sparkling reflection or the wink from the waitress as I order a coffee? Is it the stones underfoot, which are heated to an ethereal hotness and both smooth and callus my bare feet? Is it the cactus, the spikes, reaching up, managing to survive on barely a drop of nourishment? Is it the oleander who’s flowers draw me in but whose leafs will drop me dead? Is it tan lines, waves, summer thoughts of romance, of loss and abandon? Is it gelato or a glass of too cold white wine and a piece of fried fish? Is it red skin, white skin, brown skin, in between skin, skin in transition or skin that shows the luxury of time spent lounging? Maybe it’s just me that stings my eyes, maybe it’s my mind that dissolves the droplets and impacts the cornea. Maybe it’s me that won’t let up, that pushes for a sleep, and then dreams things I forget? Maybe it’s all of these things, or none of them. Maybe it’s just my imagination that the water stings my eyes. Maybe.