[15 October 2019]
A foghorn rounds out the early twilight. Low, strong,
smooth. A deepness penetrating and permeating and
carrying the lighter blues and greens and pinks and golds.
I hear your voice, smell
your smell,
taste your taste lingering
on the edge of my mind, filling
the space between my
fingers with a strange, lonely
comfort. All that I didn’t see,
all that I forgot from them
till now, all that I didn’t say
building and building and building
and building till the lump in the
back of my throat is so large
I can’t remember how to swallow. I take off my
glove. My hand is cold. I feel the cold
come close and close in and settle down. I hear
the wind and the waves and the sun
weighs heavy down somewhere,
somewhere between the pier and the sky and the day’s last ship bobs on the horizon and gently falls off the side of the world’s
edge.
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