On Sunday we walked along Independence
until we met the water -
that's always how it is with you,
not satisfied until we've found
that place where we are small
against the waves.

We forced ourselves through
a sea of tourists,
pretended we were not like them.
I pushed by a woman with a stroller.
A couple with a selfie stick.
I was focused on the end.

We walked on a runway of petals,
walked under a stark-white canopy -
the cherry blossoms were lighter than usual.

I kept my eyes directly ahead.

We paused twice (I counted).
You said we should.
We looked out to the water,
the monument,
saw the current in front of us
felt the current behind us
of the people we were
so adamantly not.
We continued on.
I hate taking pictures with faces.

On Sunday I wanted to stop
and tell you
everything I could not say.
But we both know I am awful
with the spoken word.

You see I count the hours
like an odd-petaled flower -
in 'he loves me'
and 'he loves me nots.'
I am a victim of a cold environment -
I am not used to sunny outlooks.

It is Monday and I want to tell you
that I didn't count the petals
today.

On Sunday I will grab your hand.

On Sunday I will look up.

On Sunday I will tell you
all I want is the water.
and you.