Seaside

The sky was closing,

the clouds lining the falling sun’s path,

leaving scattered traces of light among the bank.

The wet air filled his lungs with salt and grit,

but he paid no mind to its barrenness.

He thought of the way her fingers curled around his,

and the way her hair fell in his mouth when her head lay on his chest—

the way it stuck to his dry lips and parched tongue.

He could see her and feel her.

He could touch her skin and smooth the hair from her cheek,

and he could feel the weight of her leg pressed against his waist.

And he knew that it wasn’t all gone.

He knew that she probably thought of him, too.

A breeze rolled in,

sweeping open his worn coat,

exposing him to the frozen wind.

And he sat and waited

for nothing and for everything.

(Andrew Wyeth's painting Baleen)