Friday, July 31, 2020

Butane at Sunset

The high tide swirls with such urgency.
My knees may sink into the present
But the past is all I can see:
The blues of what I might have done differently,
The reds and golds of how neither of us heard,
And suffered for not being understood,
The darkness encroaching of what was never said,
And how in the white foam it came anyway.