From this vantage, I see you of so missed childhoods, of the white canvas sails of Wild Harbor’s rocking vessels.
You would have painted her with watercolor on thick paper, and I with my pencil.
Where the Knob extends out onto the sea, it is covered only by the sky and the flickering trail of loosely held flashlights.
How I have wanted to gaze on my back at that endless pool, thinking of coffee dates, of teenage girlfriends, and of winter-locked walks.
How friendships rift, and the view of their ever-changing play in the tides is mesmerizing.
I painted us watercolor, and it rain together. I cried in the arms of a grandfather clock.
When rummaging through the draws in the empty bedroom, I found a pipe next to your Colt .45, and a sketchbook you once kept.
The safety catch is broken, the pencil lines are smudged, and now my house smells of tobacco.
If only I could tell you of my life, beyond what little you knew.
From this vantage, I can feel your voice in watercolors,
And from this vantage,
the view is breathtaking.