Lying on our backs at the beach,
We gaze at the sky as it blindfolds our eyes
Making us lose sense of where we are–
Making us feel that we are glued to a grainy ceiling
Watching an endless depth, waiting to be scaled by our fall.
I run my palm on the sand as if I were
Straightening the folds of a bed sheet
While you fold your life into a story–
From childhood until where you are now at the beach.
A scene, the name of a friend, the color of a dress
would be drowned by the rushing of a wave,
So that your tale becomes a fragment of things
Remembered, told, heard, and half-heard.
Yet I find your story complete in the wholeness of you
Lying on your back, facing fragments of light
Brought together by distance.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 7:50 AM UTC
Lying on our backs at the beach,
We gaze at the sky as it blindfolds our eyes
Making us lose sense of where we are–
Making us feel that we are glued to a grainy ceiling
Watching an endless depth, waiting to be scaled by our fall.
I run my palm on the sand as if I were
Straightening the folds of a bed sheet
While you fold your life into a story–
From childhood until where you are now at the beach.
A scene, the name of a friend, the color of a dress
would be drowned by the rushing of a wave,
So that your tale becomes a fragment of things
Remembered, told, heard, and half-heard.
Yet I find your story complete in the wholeness of you
Lying on your back, facing fragments of light
Brought together by distance.