His Song

On the sands, dusk will not appear for minutes.
But outward, where the waters lift themselves,
light has already begun to fade.

There are no dwellers, no sounds, no one singing
spring songs. The only sound is my voice–subtle
beside the edge of the open sea–

(now and then, a stray sigh of zephyr that brushes
the crag, stirring the limbs of trees, before
slipping off into the horizon).

It is May, and the shores, which will be full
in June, allowing joyful tourists to bask in
the warm sun, are quiet as though they have
never known the stain of a heart blown away.

It seems like years since you have wanted me.
And I cannot wake you tonight to plead for
a heart that has forgotten my smile–this will,
the strength of pulse-tide, holds me at bay.

And I cannot breathe. It is as though I had sung
a thousand books of poetry, solemn as the seasons
that have long since gone.

For an second I pause, fingers holding auburn
curls behind an ear– (I thought I heard you call
out my name, but it is only the vibration
of a soul sinking into the sand).

I bring with me a journal of leather, and a new verse
for you, my love. But my sight, blurs through salted
lashes–this place is murder.

And I feel your Spanish eyes. I recall how they smiled
beautifully, when needing me. They must now be wet,
for I have lost you within the fog. I could never have
hung onto anything that good. Forgive me.

Dusk has fallen, and the ocean currents begin to still.
Above the crag, an evening star pulsates in a solitary
dance for the hopeful. A melody composed from
the hands of an angel.

Night draws in.

The cold wind surrounds me, as tears begin to fall
again against my skin, and into my once full hands.
It feels terribly autumn.

I begin the path home on my own, carrying your words
huddled close to my chest, the distant sounds of warm
laughter, and the prayer that you might adore me
again someday.

... they are all I have to hold onto.


*Draft II