Long Wharf

It is kind of strange the way I imagine where I am the way I wish it was apart from how it reveals itself to me. I am walking, a pace slow to fit the hum of the coursing waves, back and forth on the wharf. The sun sets behind me and I begin to dream.

In one hand I grasp the air, the grass, the rough cut stones along the path,
In the other, the strong and gentle fingers of one who isn't there.
He never turns to look at me, nor do we speak.

The birds take off overhead,
The water slurs and crashes,
We walk.

To the beat of the bay,
To the strum of the city,
We walk.

To the edge of the railing,
The deep greens stretching from water to the sky,
We walk.

Past the momentous picture of hues,
many blues and grays and greens,
We walk.

To the vanishing lines of mournful jazz,
a wish and a plead in soulful melody,
We walk.

Along the song of possibilities promise, he walks.

Out of one days mind and into tomorrow's unforeseen idea, I walk.

It is kind of strange the way I imagine where I am the way I wish it was apart from how it reveals itself to me. I am walking, a pace slow to fit the hum of the coursing waves, back and forth on the wharf. The sunset disappearing behind me, and I realize.

The dream is for tomorrow, and tomorrow will come soon.