I wish
To look at the waves of old memories
(Are they even mine?)
of brushing rough fingers against
misty hands―salty like sea foam
(Are they even mine?)
Or typewritten words
(Are they even mine?)
because I simply despise my own mark of pen
because ink stains this day
will never be as fascinating
as the way the sea makes your sky-speckled shirt
as dark and as deep as it is
forming waves against your stomach

Stop,
Ask myself
(Are they even mine?)

And sigh,
not heavily
nor curse myself,
with the words
I so carelessly throw around
like this
like the sea of letters
pulling me away now,

but whisper,
"That was beautiful."
(Were they even mine?)