Gimpse in the mirror, hair cascading down
emerald eyes piercing the reflection that isn't entirely yours.
Suddenly you see yourself age 78
overlooking the sea on the balcony, wrinkles traced in hands.
The Bainbridge ferry streams along like always,
dropping off passengers on King Street.
Girls and boys strolling down the avenue
happiness and dreams circling their trails.

You are only twenty. You should be experiencing this too.

Holidays at the pond
reminded you that you were always going to be alone
and look at where you are now.
No one will see the lights with you. No one wants to see
a smile at the bokeh, the incandescent halos
wrapped around the bridges.

You only wanted to be happy.

It's the third
cup of coffee
and my hands
have never
been so
warm

where Seattle's
grey's
enchanting and
Bainbridge island's
in your eyes
again

I'd run down
Alaska
run up the angled
stairs,
cemented,
orca paintings
plastered overhead
and step my toes on-
to the ferry
where
your cigarette in hand's
releasing steam like it's
sailing away with me
too

the gulls are crying
&
inside I'm
crying too
because
I exist
in Washington
on
a ferry who can't stop
going back for
you.