Beach

It’s time to go home, but for the life of him he can’t take his eyes off her. He’s willing hers to stare back, but never really supposes she will, which is why – when she does – he loses that focus for a second. We’ve been here before he thinks, or rather says out loud.

“Yes!” she’s agreeing, not specifically with a sentiment she can’t possibly understand, but more with talking. Yes: we are still here, still talking. Don’t leave.

There is a problem. He can’t stay at hers tonight, her man wouldn’t understand, or more to the point, would very much understand. So he has to stay with a friend, who-

“I’m not going to the beach. I hate the beach.” Let’s go to the beach, with the pebbles and the tide, and this woman, this one here. Something can happen. Don’t do this! “I’m going home. Come on.”

If he tilts his head, he can see the night. He can see waves and her sweat, her perfume touch-tagging the salt in the air. The awkward few months and the goodbye letter, unwritten and inserted into the card between the sentiments. She would thank him, for that.

Doors open, engines fire. She hugs him once, and then pushes deeper into him for the second, close as she can until there’s barely air between them. And then the tide takes her, carries her out.

Inside and out.

I noticed it most, I think,

When I crashed a cigarette

just to have that little extra in common that night

And before, inside, I caught a look that was part fear and part taboo

A flash of something utterly vulnerable while I stretched, and curled up

and asked you to read for me

and yeah, blushes and maybe even a little worry, but I saw –

you still g r i n n e d

and before: outside

it was too dark to lay in the grass
you said

but I thought: imagine that

no light, and cold damp grass, and cold wet air, and two warm bodies, and music hummed and breathed in and gasped out and all in

tandem

But a no (for now) is a no.

And still, you carry me home on hope.

Some luck

They have been laughing for what feels like hours,

And he is feeling warm.

It could be the booze, but, he says:

“You look your best when you’ve just showered, you know-” and she looks for the humour, then frowns, then stops so still that he heaves “-when you’re in your dressing gown I mean. You look perfect.”

He hasn’t anything else to say,

“.”

And he feels a fool

So the kiss is a blow, wrong as much as right.

Engaging.

Sat here, even the weather seems optional
the bay sky razor-cut by forks of white on black billows
the shore razed by hot light

With breeze lilting the water through your blood
and your heart warm to match the sun-soaked rock
you have a choice

There are others lying here, still drunk
thinking about the first drops as they shatter on stone
the depth of the bay
cold with the calm
and at home is your bride to be
pouring

Distance (For Emily)

Distance can mean a lot
Bearing crosses on phones
Xs to divide the Ks

It can be in the eyes
looks leagues gone, while he is a shiver away
thinking of elsewhere

It will be your run now, too, long
enough for most
not nearly for a head chasing skyline

But today you are understood
Allowed to pause
Held

Distance is for the going
But, for ten more minutes

Just don't.