JENNY LANE - WRITER 

Wisps of fins dance through my fingers,

seaweed curls beneath my feet.

The sand wraps around my ankles

and holds me gently.

The bed of salt unwinds

and lifts me into the sun,

blanketing my shoulders in a showered light

that has been missing far too long.

 

Drunk teardrops line the carpet

that distances the two beds.

The stale room I left you in

was a distorted oubliette. 

Sickly evidence of the drinks

we drank to see an eye to eye,

a grisly attempt at starting fresh

a last chance to make it right.

 

I watch the window where the curtains

are dulled with muddy words,

unlike the ocean that reflects

a bright and living sky.

It holds the shape of open arms

to wash my mind of rust.

A holiday that was meant to heal

but ended with emptiness.