I dip my hands into the Pacific,
skin salt-stained; words wind-swept.
silt in the crescents of your fingernails;
the crescent of the moon bright and hard and beautiful.
the windows casting parallelograms of light,
casting a bruise of shadow beneath your cheekbones.
You step on a spine of driftwood, bone-white and splintered -
what frail creature did it once hold up,
what heart did its ribs once encircle, cage-like, brittle?
If you could roam a soul, would it look like this?
the ocean obsidian dark; the shore a line drawn and redrawn?
the tide marking moments, the stones the shape of your palms?
Take a good look, because we aren’t coming back.
and all other moments will be measured to this,
this wasteland of nature, this sea of unknown depth,
the light diffusing, the shore becoming distant -
a half-shaped word in a dream, a murmur without a sound, a heart-
beat fading to a husk in your throat. gone before it reaches your lips.