Re-visiting the last thing

you wrote ...

"The row of people diminishes when I try to picture you. I find mirrored in my mind the tension of sky sand and the expanse that consumes words. You've moved apart, an image white sheeted on the bleached sand. Even skimming rocks on the surface of the sea is a foiled attempt at attention for they sink faster than they skip."

You re-write

Breaking out of their strict rows, the people on the beach now fan out according to their willingness to engage the surf. It rolls in inconsistently, sometimes surprising the beach combers with its knee high lurches. Like scavengers, we take what we can of seashells, assorted pieces of broken coral and broken glass made smooth, only to scatter up the beach when the surf washes in. But the sun is ever consistent, heat beating down without respite. I find mirrored in my mind the tension of sea sky sand and the expansive heat that consumes words. Moving apart, you become an image white sheeted on the bleached sand. In the distance I make out your hazy outline and for a moment I think you a mirage. As waves of heat blur your outline, I grasp at making the picture of you stay in my mind. But there I only find the contradictions of sea sky and sand, of depths, surfaces and infiniteness.

Even skimming rocks on the surface of the sea is a foiled attempt at attention for the rocks sink faster than they skip. Momentarily distracted by the vividness of physical activity, I hardly notice that you've drifted back and now stand beside me. You laugh as the rock plops again into the surf but I do not catch exact the moment when your grin becomes a smile.