The beach grows morose and dark with each minute passing. I stare out the window, dripping wet, outside the shower, wondering where you’ve gone this time. Have you left to chase the moon, the only light over the water, grasping where it’s gone, as only you can do? Have you left me for another, while I’m waiting here on the unmade bed, barely hearing your song? Have you left for what you arrived for, relieved and satisfied?
I’m not nearly as brave as you realize. Leaving was not the worst way to wake me from my rhythmic death. I just wish I had a chance, to draw once again, on the universal breath. We both choke on perfume, badly applied. And we both smile at love filtered through the fog of unrest.
So I trace the windowsill, with my un-filed fingernail. I swill the whiskey still, waiting for a piece of mail. It may come from you, it may not, as long as we’re not the last ones waiting, at Salem’s lot.
And with each metaphor, the memory comes back to me. The flower in your hair gives me allergies, that you would love to deny. But each flower has a petal, that when pressed, draws your image closer to mine.
We sing in harmony, each time we see, ourselves in mirrors, in front of the bleak. And love never comes rationally, that’s only the way it seems, once we try to leave, and love is all we receive.