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August 07, 2008  Author: Anthony Pacheco Category: The Craft   0 Comments


The beach was empty.
To the left, rocks and forest
To the right, forest and rocks
Ahead, more rocks jutting upwards through the surf
As if they were angrily protecting their beach

The mist wanted to be rain, or the rain wanted to be mist
The weather was no match for wool and silk
But my nose was getting cold.

My small hand in hers again. I always liked holding her hand.
She never grew tired of it, and it was always warm.
“If he loved the sea so much, why didn’t he live here?”

“Look and listen, maybe the ocean will tell us,” she said.
I watch and listen.  Waves crash in, hiss of water receding
The roar of the wind and the surf far off mixing with the close by.
The sounds are the same but they never pattern

Lonely, so very lonely…
She picks me up and kisses a tear
I did not know I was crying
“I don’t like it here anymore, can we go?” I ask.

“Of course. Where would you like to go?”
“Ice-cream?” I ask hopefully.
She laughs and ruffles my hair
I hate it when she does that

But every time she does it she smiles

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