a story, unfinished.

I remember
how the weather
felt that cold September night--

I remember
that the ocean
smelled of salty-sweet delight--

I remember
the sensation
of your hand: warm, smooth in mine--

I remember
constellations
dancing in the midnight sky.

You turned to me,
you whispered, "Darling,
take my hand, we'll run away!"

We made it to
the beach's end
and then turned back; I had to stay.