What might have been is still waiting

at the horizon, where the world drops off

into whatever happens beyond our sight.

 

We walk on the beach looking like lovers

on a second honeymoon, at ease with who we are,

calloused skin beneath our rings,

sweaters draped over our shoulders. 

 

But really, we were not prepared for what came.

And nothing can help us handle what waits beyond the

gray arc of this concave mirror, the horizon where

all the world’s visible light is held in suspension.

 

When the warm saltwater washes over our feet

I am reminded of the first time innocent warmth flared

between us, fusing our lives, sending us into

this long slow spiral on heavy wooden wings.

 

And now that the wind is up

the salt and sand sting my eyes.

I see you through tears as you lower your head, stride into the wind,

and I follow you toward that uncertain light.