The sound of his voice made me shudder.
His hand, clasping at mine,
Stained by the imprint of our step for moments only:
A washed up outline of colours running into each other,
Denying the form consistency.
Breathing in the brackish miasma,
The ragged air of the coast,
I forgot to answer and only smiled.
Waves crashed into the edges of the rock-strewn beach.
The water glistened cold,
My thoughts refracted in its glare,
The lights and shadows that form the fragments of time
Wherein we attempt to make something of our existence.
There are many days like this one,
When connections seem all out of reach,
Purposeless and stale,
Like yesterday’s breakfast,
On the chequered tablecloth.