I don't see blackness when I close my eyes,
I see you, me -- our moment.
Us sitting waist deep in the river between islands,
small waves lulling, and a sun
dripping oranges and reds to the west.
There is a laughter that carries the birds higher,
as we toss small shells at each other,
and you teach me to skip rocks.

Tell me if you wish it'd been different.

I think of what could have been
every time I see you
every time I hear you
every time I breathe.
The stray shell would graze your cheek,
you'd take my hand from your face
and place it over a rapid drum and say
This is for you.

Tell me if you wish it'd been this way.

Tell me if you ever think about our moment.
Am I wasting my time, holding onto this shell,
or should I let it go?
Would you watch it with me as it rolls on the river bed
and becomes forgotten?