It was such a race.
Our boots both casting earthy clay,
perfect little symbols born of tread and sand and sweat.
It’s the ocean, I think: I can smell it.
It’s stone and sand and salt,
but then I know it’s in my mouth. It’s blood.

I look away.
This needs to be dignified, I think.
I’m taking a life. We both got dressed up for this.
The terror, the resolute acceptance of this day being my last,
it’s replaced by the blue-green pallor of your cheeks
and the knowledge that only one of us can come back.

It’s a lie we tell ourselves though;
we all died that day.
And none of us are coming back.