A flea above the marble while
the ocean ebbs and flows,
I ponder as the cumulus
is foam between my toes.

They say, “Another fish will come
and lo! the sea is vast.
Your patience will be justified,
the pleasure unsurpassed.”

They add, “It makes no common sense
to hum a somber hymn
and if you truly care for her,
you have to let her swim.”

They tell me, “When you least expect,
a trophy takes the bait
without a hook, without a line;
you simply need to wait.”

In truth, my wasted, paper heart
had sailed a shred too high,
but like the sun for Icarus,
she made me want to fly.

Poetic wax had melted fast
and thus the deathly knell.
My only indication was
a backward fare-thee-well.

I question if we ever were
on equal, level planes—
if, when it didn’t work, that she
felt corresponding pains.

The past has passed. It doesn’t help
to pout and reminisce,
but is it so unorthodox
if she’s the one I miss?

Another destination looms
as both of us explore
though cloudy skies’ uncertainty
lends little to rapport.

I wonder when she’s seen the world,
if left to her device,
conceivably that she could jump
inside the same boat twice.


© Kaleb Pier, 2015

Public Domain Photo