I used to believe that we shared things–
Like the moon.
And I trusted that a current would instinctually bring us together
The same way in which birds flock to the South in the Winter.
We were part of natural order.
I used to believe that all things were written in a large, unalterable Book;
but I learned that God never paid attention to the details.
We write those ourselves.
When I learned you were back, I was in traffic–
waiting for the light to change.
I knew I would not call, so I rolled down my window–
taking a deep breath.
I still believe that we share things–
like the salty, coastline wind;
and that the tides reconcile our differences.
As time dissipates and waves wear at our spirits,
I search for a trinket–
a manifestation of a good memory; my good story.
It makes me feel juvenile.
I believe we share things–
like recollections of springtide.
[A draft, always].