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.
        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.
Annabel's Blues : Wayne H. W. Wolfson