sailing for better shores, or abandoned islands,
      folding paper boats, destined for the mainland.
sat on a bench an hour and a half, out on that bay,
                                          watching seagulls scream,
walking through the dusty overgrowth in a daydream haze,
                                            drawing tiny recipes for loneliness
             out of the thin air.

                         for three days,
        haven't seen fit to eat or drink;
   all sustenance just unsettles
that terrible ache
in the pit of this assemblage of flesh,
        as long days curl into the crescent of
             such half-hearted lunar illumination

the sand always brings those thoughts back-
           how the lights out east
                         strangled the knots
                       in that mousey forest of hair,
eyes, opaque in the shade of half of a hand,
            watching the clock,
               with nowhere to be.

           she disappeared
like paper boats sailing out to sea.