I was a beast. She badly wanted one for her collection.
At first this new found honesty was invigorating. For me, things quickly soured though. In the back of my mind I began to suspect that no matter how bad I was, I was secretly doing her bidding.
I was running out of ideas. I had to get out.
My leaving had hurt her more than anything else I had tried.
I stood at the sea. The ocean sending long cool tendrils to shyly tickle my feet. The push and pull of tides, it is mesmerizing.
A final call? That long sought after kiss. Cold and indifferent, a final dreamy disappointment.
How many poems is that already in?
It is the fake cry of a woman. That too.
We walked here, Styrofoam cups of coffee. Now I walk alone.
Look.
Everybody leaves what they can. A dog's head, shot gun shells, a crumpled up invitation to a now deserted party.
Listen again to the tide.
I will.
I will take my time, since tonight I am alone. The song of the tide? The sound?
The fake cry of a woman, given in-between passionless kisses with that night's partner. The blushing bride is cold, blue like the sea.
A hollowed out valentine made of sea glass, blue, left for someone else, to be found in the morning.
