we were at the beach
the sand beneath our feet
your hand in mine
the sun shining all the while
and i wanted to believe
that you would look at me
the way you looked at him
but we are ships passing each other by
on a dark foggy night.
you are a star
blazing into earth’s sky
and deep in these woods
i am this night,
woven around trees and rocks
into a hundred fireflies,
twinkling in the dark.
So here we are again,
the same place, once again,
same conversations, same little confessions,
the same little cabin and cocktails,
collecting seashells for unmade necklaces,
white shirts over floral prints
over red lipstick
over transparent nail varnish
over oyster dinners and supermarket arguments.
The same spot under the same lighthouse:
red paint like our toenails and white like the shells placed in a line upon your back.
still investigating pearls under the bright sun:
golden sand stretched into the
crashing white waves into the
swaying blue surface into the
year after year: one tight circle of security.
over the sound of roaring water
I heard you say you had fallen out of love with me.
Remembering Sappho today, from ‘To Anactoria’
my mind is coaxed awake from a particularly long train of thought, not yet asleep not fully awake, it seems as if sweet dreams were being brought on
because I woke up in a million years—my soul floating up to the stars—my lips forming contentment in all its lazy, luxuriant glory,
my hair soft—even after ages in the sun—healing in the shade of night—my eyes heavy with the weight of your dreams and my senses are filled to the brim
my eyes are closing—i’m floating back down into sleep’s folding embrace and my mind is full of your soft peach lips and your sun warmed skin and your raven hair thick and curling between my fingers,
and I’m back again in your deep blue room and wind blown white curtains, your tumbling pile of books your unmade bed where your lips touched mine for the first time, your stack of records and films strewn around without a care because—because I’m full of you, you with your well-worn shorts and laughter bouncing off the walls, the evening sunlight turning you golden and Edward Sharpe singing Home.
And I am, I am. I am truly, truly, home.
You tell me you are not beautiful
but you don’t stop
How the wind holds
her sweet breath
her approval to me
How the sparkling waters
under the sunlight
burst forth like a million
How the stars of the calm
night glitter much so
bright, you don’t see.
You only tell me
And we weep in tearlessness, disharmony in our hearts while the smile denies the obvious truth and the sharpness of grief wedged deep in our souls.