Return to: Losing LoveOur Last Planned October I was awakened by distant bells; shrimp boats in the harbor. A cuppa morning coffee warms. My hands wrapped around, fingers laced, bring it slowly to sleepy lips, kissing warmth. I stand watch from a cold balcony. Just enough light to see boats; ghost shadows dancing over fog and grey crests. Feet stir under the sofa, find worn flip flops, tip toe through a door. High tide. Alone on the beach, I watch a thin stain of orange leak larger into arch of sky and sea. The sun rises slowly. Born from a trembling water womb, it bleeds gold into the mother. Light spilled is too far out; this tide will never bring it back. It flows, I think, to another place beyond the reach of eyes, but not of heart. It flows to you, in another morning. A terrible swell of longing rises. It is my heart, torn from home, fragile against hurricane odds. It bleeds to touch a rocky shore, where you stand waiting by the sea demanding so much more. Shirley Alexander © 2008
