My first time at Mission Beach
the salty scent of mist left me stunned-
aerosol could come close
to the ocean air and gentle heat,
but it can’t be bottled and sold.
Still, the waves toppled over in mass production
and pulled.
My clumsy big toe stumbled on the mouth
of a cracked olive-hued glass bottle.
No handwritten quill pen ink
or musty ivory pages with tears at the crease,
not even a desperate S.O.S. pleading to be read,
but its emptiness was all I needed to know.
The whiskey on your breath told me everything
as you toppled over.
You toppled over,
and I pulled.
Lips cracked and eyes flooding
your rosy cheeks
now bitter forget-me-nots,
I counted your ribs in the frame of your body that day,
the same way you once counted the freckles
stretched across my face.
Sun-kissed, basking in the sun,
you missed the boat and you’re trying to run
on empty bottles.