The sand is crackling with words of discouragement.
That's the problem with the stuff
cakes in, digs everywhere.
Like clown makeup and failure.
Always takes one more shower than you'd expect to get off.
As I pull creaking joints from finely obliterated life,
I'm stuck eyelevel in contra with the high noon sun skipping off the waves.
At least for today, I'm the last man on earth.
Three sets of footprints in the wash.
The fear of the man I was,
the love of the fool I became,
and a man afraid of rescue, gradually forgetting his name.
I can't help that I love her.
So I threw darts at a map of the ocean for somewhere to drown,
with my luck I found this paradise.
No shark bites or mai thais.
No amazing islander accent so thick with errant english and rhythmic insanity.
No volleyball to mock me.
Maybe the problem is that I can't help it...
maybe its that I can't prove it.
Not from here...
but god this is so much easier.
What would you do?
Catch the stars and set them in rings?
Bleed the rubies to quench her thirst?
Crumble the mountains with a toothpick to spell her name?
Or would you write love letters in the sky,
fill bottles with sonnets and huck them blindly into the sea?
I would.
So I did.
For as long as she'd read them.
I have plenty of sand to count while I wait for her reply.
