My seaside addiction reads my fiction
about men who can’t say hi or stay high
long enough to write a her forever
at the first sight of any real weather.
“Do you ever wonder if this is it?”
She smiles and her hair blows, just a bit,
In the westward wind, which smells like sweet sin,
and I try to figure out what to say –
To move the conversation my way.
“I hope not. I thought I’d get to love you more.”
But she sees through me. Her eyes glance at the door,
Full of anticipation and hope,
Or maybe, that’s how she likes to cope:
To imagine a way out to her old dreams,
away from these Everyday themes.
She looks over and wipes my shoulder,
“I really hate when it gets colder.”
As her head moves under the blanket,
I wonder if she is going to fake it.