January 30, 2015

Memories of You

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The harbor.

It glows. It groans for us. It reaches out silken hands and tries to pull us back to where we once roamed, fingers entwined and hearts thumping through our shirts. Where I sat on the beach, sand curled between my toes, watching you stand at the base of the lake and let the ends of waves lace your legs. Where we trekked to the lighthouse, racing to meet where the sky and water met at the horizon and never arriving fast enough to see them separate. We spent early morning hours sitting on the concrete with a blanket and my telescope, staring at the stars and connecting them in abstract patterns we drew on our own cosmic canvas.

Harbor

 

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Light slips away.

A part of me fades into the clouds, as if this place and my dreams need to paint our story in the reflection of what used to be, every detail bobbing helplessly in the hazy churn of this last tide.

I miss them. Memories of you and the way you slipped your arm around my shoulders when I wasn’t aware you had crept so close.  The scent of you hits me hardest when I push open my windows during a storm and rain races in, tapping rhythms on my table. I hear the lyrics you’d sing to me as we held our hopes high on strings we sailed into the winds that held us protectively and wondered where we would land.

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