is windy, almost cold
littered with people,
watchers, walkers, guests in the house
of ocean.
“Don’t step on the sandcastle,”
a mother warns, as if
it will stand through the night, as if
the tide should listen to her.
“Look at all these shells, girls,”
a father smiles, as if
they did not tread on
the bones of those exiled
from their silent ecosystem.
The people stop and stare
at the waves, as if
they will change, as if
they will stop, as if
the sea is not staring back.
And at the edge, I
sit shivering, in awe
almost afraid to peer beneath
the rippled glass.

This is the tightrope we
are so privileged
to dance on, my dear
as we tarry on the line
between danger and grace.

waiting at the crosswalk
next to a man, but with
an air of being alone.
She stands proudly in her
body, her feet planted
stoically on the sidewalk
her lips are slightly parted
to blow a single silver ringlet
out of her face.
I wish I were her,
for even an instant,
instead of a car passenger
stuck staring out the window
at strangers she's known for
a lifetime.

and I don’t know why.
I woke up with pins and
needles, and they’ve been aching since.
I’ve barely walked, at least
not more than normal
but they feel as if they might
crack and bleed.
They hurt more knowing
all the things you had planned for us -
skipping and jumping and dancing
and laughing
and though I’ve cried to them
they just won’t let me go.
All I can do is
apologize to you and your
runner friends
for everything I can’t
bring myself to do.

I never told you how
your room looks just like you.
I can't help but notice its
soft edges and
angles,
and the way the mountains swell
determinedly outside the window
across from your bed.
When it's quiet enough, I can hear
your heart beating like music
from your chest of drawers.
The mismatched knick-knacks atop
your tenderhearted wooden nightstands
and I
watch you as you read, and we
try not to smile
as the lighting obliges
to make you
the central, most beautiful feature.