This seemed like a place

to be scared enough to feel alive 
but safe enough to write a poem 

This deck creaks and squeaks  
The sand, forced
to hold the old wood in
silent, obvious rebellion
of it’s task.
The water slaps and gargles on the rocks like
my queasy stomach 
Is he mad? 

I am cold. Bare
knees
let my black scuffed boots,
the ones I wear to look tough, 
defined as— withstanding 
rough or careless handling, 
hang a few inches above the 
dark,
gentle water. 

San Francisco twinkles tiredly 
over the laziest landscaped trees 
somewhere in Berkeley
in the horizon 
surrendering to
the line of red taillights behind me 
I’m too late 
to need to be a part of.

I missed the pink sunset—
higher forms of possibilities,
I was on 580. 
I read the email wrong. 
Learning,
the meeting already started. 
I drove here instead.
I’m wearing my favorite sweater. 
I didn’t know what else to do. 

I told him where I was 
I wondered 
somehow 
if he blamed himself.
He does that sometimes. 

I wish he knew 
He’s the reason I didn’t turn around
and drive right back to San Francisco 
I wait for him 
to know where to go
his place or mine 

He’s yet to reply. 

I wish he knew how this place feels to me 
on this deck 
over this water

I wish he knew how this place feels to me
scared enough to feel alive 
but safe enough to write a poem