LII.

the child in you.
swimming around us like so much golden sand.
you see it on the neon horizon.
you hear it in strings and snares.
you remember early mornings,
textures of the tide,
shopping for school,
sleeping in sand-dusted clothes --
and the ocean's whisper keeps you awake.

it's okay.
awake with you is the most rest
this soul's seen in a while.
as we both pretend to sleep.

sore muscles on the sand.
like i can't hear you shift.

i reach out with a word.

"hey."

your eyes, stilling, reaching me from another land.
shaded in shadow.
yours.

"you okay?"

heavy exhale.

i should have kept those shells --
but i let them fall
as i swam toward your surfboard.

anxiety about your shirt,
drenched in sweat.
but luke is asleep.
and you know i don't mind.

there's nothing to fear.

but he was so real --
you point, a place that's real
outside a tent that's real
he had black hair and wide eyes --
real? i am real.
you are safe.
and that is real.

the mouth reflects the heart
and the eyes reflect the soul.
maybe i need darker glasses.

let's absorb the thunder of riptide songs.
let's hang our arms out the windows,
climb through the sunroof.
let's laugh ourselves sore on a night drive.
let's make it last forever.

and here i am as though it was nothing.
walking through these town squares that are nothing.
sand and stars so painfully close --
and i sit to see perfect jetstream angles --
and it is nothing.

like a stuck dream.

and then you reach.
"remember this one?"
of course i do.
you don't need to show me the window.
"super bummed you're not here.
there's no one to make fun of."

it knocks the breath out
eyes sting;

i miss you.

don't have the arms to reach across this ocean.