On the Shore

I.

You were there,

and I was there

too.

And your smile

as you waved

goodbye

(though you did

not know it).

Lindsay,

why didn’t I—

The pale,

silver light

of the moon

reflected off

the gently

rippling water

as you seemed

to swim.

I just watched…

II.

You gave me

pop-tarts first

a year ago,

fresh from

the toaster;

you always

gave me the

one with more

frosting.

The wrinkles

of your smile

(and the spinach

between your teeth)

as we walked,

your hand in mine,

through the city

of lights,

where the doors

of perception

now lie

shut and dead.

You look—,

seem—, looked,

radiant,

like—

like nothing

before or since;

at the place

where speech fails.

III.

What can I do?

I can—

I can still hold

your shirt.

It still smells

like you,

like your sweat,

like your perfume…

I felt empty,

deep inside,

at the funeral,

when everyone

was looking at

your coffin and

not at all at me.

Qué bonito es

un entierro.

You know—

knew—that

I love—

(loved?) you

wholly,

completely,

simply.

And yet—

I watched you—

IV.

When I try

to sleep

at night,

when I lay

my head down,

I see nothing.

I do not

dream

of you.

I do not

dream

of our first kiss.

I do not

dream

of your death.

I do not

dream

of your funeral.

I do not

dream.

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