I’m supposed to be writing a poem about a significant person.
But all I see, inside my eyelids, is me—
Sitting on a bench, in front of an ocean.
Not the picturesque inviting blue water
And warm soft sand—no.
Instead, I sit on a bench, on a steep rocky slope.
Jagged sharp stones, scream danger and fear.
A misty damp fog makes me feel I’m the only one here.
Below, cold and grey crash against the earth’s crumbling crust,
Though as I stare longer,
Amongst the sharp, I see round, soft edges.
Amongst the fog, I find clarity in each droplet’s image.
Amongst the freezing tide, I feel warm, bubbly foam,
Before the fifth of February, the ocean is all I would’ve seen.
But with you a part of the water, I find it dangerous yet protecting.
Now, inside my eyelids, all I see is me—
Sitting on a bench, in front of you.
I’m supposed to be writing a poem about a significant person,
I believe I just did.