he and I beside the sea,
stones are falling in the silence,
sand is taking him from me.
When the wind begins its turning,
spins the seagulls in their cries,
and the sun (or son) turns older,
rising, drifting past my eyes.
Morning’s petrichor was healing,
soft and fleeting, wasn’t it?
Like a scent of hidden feelings
we could never name or keep.
It feels like spring, or early summer,
or autumn’s quiet amber tone,
like walking through at five together,
lost in the rays of the city glow.
In the park there wandered others:
strangers drifting through the day,
strange to feel so close to lovers,
yet alone among them.
Winter comes without a warning,
turns the restless sand to white,
and the sea, by early morning,
shifts to pacific-ocean night.
And I grow in its motion,
holding breath against its roar,
while the son fades in the ocean,
drifting further from the shore.
11.12.2025
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