She sits on the dock, looking out as

the orange sun sets right behind her left ear.

The gentle breeze whispers words for me to say but,

by the way the wind brushes her weightless hair,

I am worried that it may also be speaking to her.

Seagulls eat at the picnic scraps a family left at the beach.

Waves crash the dock, like the pounding in my chest,

and we sway with the motions- getting sick in unison.

As we inhale the salty air, it is there on that dock where

I exhale the last of my hope, for the third time this week.

Indecision no longer, and I watch the boats move in closer,

mirages of a false escape from feet on solid land.

The sea was once private and it was ours to sail.

Now, as the sun sets, low tide reveals the dead shells

and the empty bottles out of sight from most of the day.

A valley has formed beneath the dock and I know that

her and her hair are just as alive as the beached seaweed.

Wish you were here.