A tidal bore rolls west toward
the docks fingering eastward,
the bay lolling in full sight from this landing
as you point it out to me,
tickled by the solitary wave.
I stay to watch it crash
but it goes under, melting
into the careless flow.
You are behind me now with arms around,
rocking me to your silent song
as the sun sinks into the horizon.
At night I picture the ships
and feel the loneliness of thinking
about life passing. I want to be an older version,
younger and still the boy version of her —
my first and only, the guilt tide ripping me
through the rest.
It was the Wayside Inn – the decision to abandon,
and now looking back for a signal;
but there is only the dark distance
between here and what I miss(ed),
and a silence, like sound without a wave
to move through.
– Oakland, CA