The small cottage by the beach is lonelier this evening. The paint peels off its walls in clumps. The wooden roof now rife with holes.
We once walked this beach, separated by the width of a sea breeze, and watched the gulls circle over the distant fishing boats as the ends of the sky turned red like an old wound pried open. We didn't talk much that evening. I remained lost in the gray mist of my own demons and you toed the sands where the waves rolled in. We watched the crab holes exhale the ocean. You collected seashells and later placed them in a bowl of potpourri back home.
I carry the shells with me today to slip them back into the waves.
a parasol leans into
its own shadow