I remember when you left the island.
Gone an hour and I missed you already,
though we had nothing together,
so there was nothing to miss
and no one to leave.
I look at maps of the island
and think of you and me
and how I had trouble finding the right words,
the right pronouns, verbs, adjectives
(the adverbs I could handle thought).
I think of us and the time
we walked to the beach.
You buried my feet in the sand-
Later that evening
you showed me your sunburned shoulders.
If I had been an artist of any sort
I would have asked to draw you
like everyone seems to be doing in the movies these days.
Instead I bit my lip and struggled,
as I always do.
I never deserved what I got-
good or bad.
I try to release my tenuous hold on you
and how I remember you.
© 1998 Wayne Pitcher