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.