Capitola By the Sea, 01/31/10

The land I’ve come to has no winter.

– the sea dumps its fog on us,

yet sapphire skies find me by day’s end.

I have come here tonight,

– in hopes of seeing you upon the water,

eager to catch your reflection on the rigid sea.

I come delicately, with my eyes widened

– by experience and by tears.

I have come to the water,

the Saint of rhythm and steadiness,

– that I might guzzle her decency,

and become drunk upon her shore.

An enormous verse is stewing in my fingertips,

– these words for you are firing within the subtle curve of my tongue

and yet all that escape are these tiny disjointed syllables,

– terse and awkward and virginal

despite their grave and sinful origin

I loved you once,

I can’t prove it,

I can’t hold it,

I can’t wrap it up and learn to give it away again.

It is yours,

only yours.

I am rendered ataxic upon this shore,

dust and mud caked on my bruised feet,

from roads too long and lonely.

As the waves wash over me,

The sun begins losing its petals,

and my arms start losing the shape they once kept to hold you.

Like peristalsis in reverse, the words I need to say to you are stubbornly making their way to my lips,

Slowly and sluggishly the right thing to say is finally forming,

and it is here,

and it is not nearly as large or as complicated as I thought,

and yet its the most difficult word I can imagine.

All I have to say to you,

All I have needed to say this whole time,

All that I need to say forever,