The sea rushing in at our ankles so cold this November of bereft. Wind pushing and pulling at the same time, deeming us awkward. My hair a tangle of dark seaweed you would later climb.
I looked at you for accordance before I moved the horizon with my fingertip and wet your lips with sunlight and salt, so you would long for the story of the light house and the old man who walked backwards looking for his wife.
Out of rhythm with cloud, the seagulls remind us of how lopsided everything has become. How our heads long for sea-light yet fall askance to the sand and skeletons of the tiniest bleached out crabs, dulled mermaid purses, small speckled stone.
I was memorizing the sea and its page of blue ink and underbelly of lightest green. So tangible, so palpable, our excruciating despair–written in our moss eyes locking and releasing each other over and over again. Too heavy with lies. The lies we told ourselves to wake up and not question the desire to be a part of the universe.
Lies to ourselves and the others that it wasn’t as bad as it really was, the stop-gap, the out-of-breath, train with no horn. The spoon-fed, bulleted punch-card lies strewn on prime time TV–scare tactics, a covering of tracks, the colossal noise.
We climbed the algae-slimed rocks toward the cove and fell into approaching nightfall. You pulled my seaweed wild hair from my clammy face, and a heaviness lifted with the seagulls receding from the beach with our proliferating sadnesses.
I touched your cracked lip with my fingertip and kissed the salt from your labored breath. Yes, there were many types of death that demanded a fractional catharsis, caused a splintering of one’s backbone, the smoke and dust that filled the car right after the crash.
When we left the shore’s indigo page of ink and its waves lapping the bleached shore, the old man was still studying the light house and its faraway turquoise light, still waiting for his wife to return home so he could finally could eat his dinner,