a lawn of dust grew up around our graduation photo
as we started spending saturday mornings with a fresh head
buying the weeks produce from the farmers market
laid out on the pavillion where we used to blend evening with night
and a bottle of something.
now we drive with destination
and circle early mornings with a coffee in hand
every second of the day strategically planned.
we are visitors back home, driving away not for escape
we are travellers passing through

Everything brings back
Thoughts of the Sea
The Tumultuous Ocean
That whispered to me.

Reality is nothing
After all that has passed
Everything’s tainted
Stained and unchaste.

Hours are seconds
Time stopped the day
He breathed out his last
And faded away.

I’ve stopped writing stories
With sticks in the sand
And brushed them away
With slow grieving hands

The water is silent
Where it strokes the shore
Reaching for someone
Not here anymore.

Must concentrate. I'm getting things wrong.
What's a professional poet like?
Does he take sugar? What can I do?
He'll be better at it than me.
Relax, smile, tell jokes instead of style.

The further the distance
The more I desire
Your cold winters lips
Upon my hot summers fire