you remind me of quiet weekends —
of breezy morning air touching skin,
of warm bright sunlight touching skin,
of silent calm waves touching skin,
of bed silk covers touching skin,
of skin touching skin.

A kitchen was an extraordinary
place for writing. Combined with Earl Grey
it practically wrote for you; I observed the ways
in which waves curled up and moved
towards the seagrass and back.

White foam raced to the shore
almost chasing something but
never quite reaching; slamming the rocks
on its path, smoothing out sands.
Then fade away.

I took a sip and chose a wave
to root for in this contest.
My eyes followed; observed it getting larger,
whiter, faster but all in vain. Sooner or later
it would disappear and become one
with all the others.

Grandfather’s clock had signaled dinner, as I
finished my third mug and looked at you.
Henry rubbed his ears against my foot
and jumped on the chair beside,
joining me in my daily hour of
wave surveillance.

This world is full of people who will hate you, drag you down, and rub dirt in your wounds. There are also many who will show you love and kindness.

I ask you, is it worth it? Is it worth it to go to bed every night hoping you don't wake up in the morning just to have a friend?

Is it worth it to feel the overwhelming urge to jump when you know the bottom is full of sharp rocks just to have a few happy photos?

Is it worth it to loathe your existence so much that you wish you would just stop breathing already just to take in the cool air that escapes from a crashing wave?

Is it worth it?


- t.s.

Fingers running, your lips deftly persue
And stray farther from my aching chest
They press, so kindly
Those whispered words.

You speak so softly, dear
But in each touch of your lips
My body feels like running water
And the waves break rhythmically
On the surface of my skin.