A poem.

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the thing he misses, is
less the flirting.
passed that.

and before the sentiment.
it’s not a question of love.

it’s the physicality.

but not the closeness,

the rushing


that is
not like a wind, but a wave,
nestling the lucky few by its bank.

if the opposite of vague is a matter of
distance, then his first
was rockiest –
the furthest from the shore.


and if repetition breeds empathy, then his
view of the water now is far from
where it roars,
the only rain from a distant storm.
standing at the threshold of his patio door watching those
dark clouds linger,
he’s thinking of taking a shower.

walking.

washing.
a stroll at the beachhead right now would be
something.

//wd 9.2.2026

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