Sitting On A Bench

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,

Eroding

 

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,

Soothing

 

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. 

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