Reminisce These Waters


You always thought the water was enigmatically
beautiful, like a pool of slanted moonlight spilled
in tears from the eyes of the white-faced man in the sky.
Your favorite time to visit its parchment-pale strips of
sand, upon
sand, upon
sand,
was just before the sun resurfaced from below the
horizon line, and the sky turned a dusty blue to match the
threadbare suede of your tired oxfords.
Morning breath floated listlessly across the mirroring
surface, the mist shrouding sailors' eyes and enwrapping
lethargic ships in its mysterious embrace.
Smooth stones were rubbed between your calloused
thumbs and cushiony palms before being carefully thrown
into the gray, clumsily flipping,
skipping,
tripping
over the water as your own two feet did on the solidity of land.
Your salted blood is much alike the piquant air of
the dawning shore, and, like a magnet, you often found
yourself drawn beside this silent, sleeping giant.
You mustn't forget to return someday, to the place where
rocks had once been tossed like pennies for wishes into
marble fountains, and the buzz of continuity had been swapped
for a moment of tranquility, for this was a haven that cradled
your lonely mind and promised peace.

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