Pacifica
The past three Februaries, I’ve lined my spine up flat against our antiquated doorway, marked progress, and measured my growth in centimeters of your breath. The marina’s breeze would carry you across my shoulders- How heavy it felt condensing upon my skin was always directly proportionate to the weight of your Indian summer love looming near. You always came back around this time of year, and I would be waiting to dip my toes in tepid waters. Splash for warmth. Let the shoreline wash through my toes. It is no mistake salt water and tears both taste of you. We once walked on water for fear of splitting oceans. Remember that?
Another year gone by, and I told you after the past one I wouldn’t be there waiting anymore. I’ve wandered too far this time for you to find traces of. You visited our grave just to make sure I wasn’t dead yet. I suppose the gesture was sweet, even drunk at your midnight. But sound travels further distances than fidelity, and the pacific lull has a different tune for dreamers. I took a vacuum sealed pack of gummy bears down to her for you. Fed the yellow ones to the tide, just for sheer spite of leaving you. Leaving home.
This is not our same sea.There must be something in the water here because it tastes just like you should have, in fact, would have… had you wished it. There is something in the water here and it rubs raw my skin in revolt of shedding you so rapidly. You know, I could have left you there alone by the water to drown in my past miseries. I could have left you so long ago had I not denied your future failures. Always hopeful you weren’t hopeless.
This is the first year I wasn’t born for the sake of loving you. This is the first year I don’t. This is the first day, I’m no longer afraid of that.
The death of a muse... Why aren't palm trees and the transition to adulthood as inspiring to write about as mean boys and teen angst daddy issues?
