Sandcastles
I can still taste the ocean scent of you in the grimy old sweater I kept when you left me. You wore it sailing that last night, the arms too long, flapping like wings-like laughter-in the breeze. The rough wool trapped my quiet whisper the last time I didn't say ‘I love you,' the last time you never said ‘goodbye.' We swam that night, miles from shore, in the illusory depths of might-could-be; we danced on the shoals of unspoken never-
to-returns. We lost fathoms of unknown tomorrows out to sea, the shell of each possible memory tossed relentlessly in the changing tide. I can still hear the waves that swept under my feet as you held me, feel faraway starlight aching from your eyes. A soft rain, like your breath, touched my shoulder. Your kiss hollowed me like salt air, filled like sweet water. For long moments, my hope gathered like sea birds-diving for shiny pebbles, keening restless discontent, skimming effortlessly away over the dunes. There is no dark like dark water, nighttime horizon. The sound of music carried, skipping like a stone across the heavy sea, and the last trace of your touch in the sand was washed endlessly away. I keep your sweater in the attic with the winter things-as though it isn't there. But on a long, cold, dark night, lacking driftwood for a fire, I wrap the salt scratchiness of these knotted, stretched, and tangled arms around me as I swim in the warm moonlight of the oceans between us.
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