Lines snake along the coast,
but this one marks us;
you, on one side,
and I, watching,
pretending that this carved line
can illustrate where I begin
and you end,
professing that it gives us a true shape,
and this continues,
us pretending and professing pretenses,
until the sea rushes in,
just brushing our ankles
and we laugh in shock—
we move closer,
our laughter and the breaking waves are the same sound,
our breath and the ocean air are the same touch,
and then the sea pulls back,
and we see the sand again,
lines gone,
but before long
one of us takes a retreating step,
while the other kneels down
to carve again what was lost,
last seen.
While we both work,
I can only suppose
we each glimpse the ocean
in the corner of our eye,
wondering
when it will ruin
all this work
again.
Recommendation: Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë