Wind and water whisper…
unintelligible but crystal clear.

As the shore disappears
the tugboat retreats.

Anchors, ropes, docks;
all restraint is gone.

There is just the wind
playing with the waves.

On a small paper
I write to them:

I surrender.

Now my hair is wet, warm and thick
Tears well up, but nobody sees them
The nearest person is too far to hear
When you were close enough, I cried

You carried me to the car
I felt vinyl and rumbling
The light of the ER was hot,
like the needle that numbed me

Six stitches fixed me
Ice cream felt good on my lips
You ate it with me,
but you’re lactose intolerant

My coffee is kinder than your eyes,
cutting through my paper heart,
poking holes in my confidence.

I start to fumble words;
enourmous wooden blocks
made of feelings too heavy for
an infant’s hands.

One turn after another,
I spiral down…
like the cream.

Finally I dissolve,
and fade into who you think I am.

Still, pain is mind’s mortality,
crinkling hope like paper -
each fiber breaking cleanly in the fold.

Sing pain again;
of women, drugs and alcohol,
of faint stale dawns.

Your eyes paint me -
a figurine on a step,
breathing fog.

My lips steam.
I watch my breath -
quietly swallowed by night.

I stare into the light,
farther along this path,
and wonder if we’ll ever meet.

Robert Frost