He would walk there in the evening,
alone, and happy to be so for a while.
Wandering the beach and his mind,
kicking the useless flotsam aside.

Wandering still through the flotsam in his head.
Picking through what's useful and not.
Remembering the things he thought forgot,
remembering the words wished never said.
And then the wash of the waves would invoke a balance,
as if he was washing parts of the day away.
The sound of the sea would be calming,
like something his mother would simply say.

There were parts of his soul that were tired,
he knew, because he felt it reach deep down inside.
Down where the soul is on fire,
washing away with the advancing tide.
His eyes would lock on the lighthouse,
illuminating his face every once in a turn.
Sand would fall through his fingers,
he looked at the flames and all of the cinders.
Trying to gauge what could not be learned.
Just trying to gauge what could not be heard.