We stay down at the rocks for longer than the others.
I think she’s meditating.
I think we’re breathing together--
as the air turns from pink to violet to the kind of blue
you feel in your gut.
There’s a boat out on the water--
with lights like a carnival.
I look at it like I’m looking at her:
out of the corner of my eye,
I want to see it again and again
for the first time.
The red and orange bleeding onto the ocean
like whatever the of matter our minds is made of.
She has her eyes closed. She might be humming or
that might be my heartbeat
or the sound of the waves.
She says the ocean is a poet,
because the rocks that were once just infants in the
womb of the earth
are now molded to her ebbs and flows.
She is their mother and their maker.
She is older than they know.
I want to say something back. I want to prove
Something heavier than she knows.
It’s cold but we won’t leave.
It feels like a promise in the still and silent air between us.
We won’t leave.
Until we stop breathing together.
Until we step back into the world together.
In the dark.
In the void of walking back home.