Seaside

You smile bravely at the miles before you;
you stumble over your words, but your eyes say "I'm scared."
And since you're looking back at me, I'm sure you can tell
that I am too, though we'll never say it out loud.

A succession of images occurs to me:
the sea sweeping by beneath you;
a pensive gray sky, under which
you sat playing the piano on the corner
of that street we used to walk, every Sunday.
And I wonder if you even remember.

The ships were always coming and going.
We sat on the docks of the harbor,
feeding the sea gulls and taking turns
spinning tales of pirates and princesses.
Those ships belonged to us, no matter where
they came from, or where they went;
and yet I never really believed
you'd give in to the cry of the bells.

A sleepy little seaside town:
fishermen and artists and retired millionaires
called it home, and so did we.
I lay on the velvet sand, beneath the summer sun,
and read you stories of faraway lands:
kings and knights and damsels in distress.
It's hard to remember now, but I know
you always wanted to be the hero in our make-believe,
and rescue me from every terrible fate you could think of.

And yet now you stand before me, trembling,
and there is nothing I can say.
This is where our paths diverge:
I'll linger in the falling leaves and watch the horizon,
softly singing one of the old sailor's songs,
as our beloved sea stretches between us.