A Little Understanding Goes a Long Way

All of us are lost, but we find ourselves when we return to the sea

salt water weathers down even the steepest angular cliffs;
reminding us that fine beaches are not built overnight,
but through persistence.

the vast expanse of sea, a blanket of blue,
tells us how small and insignificant we are;
the presence of such beauty leads to the question of purpose.

the sun, the salt and the cool sea breeze
whisper how to love:

seeking but freely given
simple and unpretentious
but most of all, passionate.

as the rhythm of the waves upon the shore is unfailing,
so must lovers be

and as we return to cold, unkind concrete
may we keep the secrets of the sea in our memory
and whisper to each other when we forget

On a lazy sunday morning in another universe,

i’d wake up next to you.

A soft kiss on your cheek, from the ever early riser

And coffee just as you like it:
ground arabica, a scoop of creamer, slight dashes of sugar.
i like how the smell reminds me of home.

I draw the blinds and sunlight hits your face.
With a sleepy smile, you throw pillows at the back of my head.
I tackle you and we laugh
The hot kettle whistles.  

With bacon and eggs,
we catch the twelth season of Modern Family.
(in this universe, tv series don’t end)
We make a plan to visit the museum tomorrow.

I play a quick tune on the weinstein and
you sit beside me, hair smelling of sweet shampoo.
Our fingers graze while i guide you through the black keys.

We take our labradors outside for a quick walk.
With sand on our toes, you tell me how the sea has always fascinated you.
I gaze at your eyes and see moonlight, and the waves.

We race indoors and retreat to the bed,
make linen hills out of the blankets
and move mountains out of our love.

Your head on my shoulder and my hand over your chest,
I feel your heart as it beats with mine, like clockwork.

Time slows down and we drift off to places unknown but familiar —-    

To coffee that will never be prepared
To museums empty without our laughter
To pianos never played, waves never felt
To neatly folded linen
And to memories that will never be created    

* * *
Damn you, William James for false hope;
for entertaining lovers with the idea of alternate realities,
when you should have told them the truth,
that this universe is all they have