Ash and iron

The beach shimmers,
golden, crumbling, empty;
the day sighs, tired,
and grows older;
I taste iron
in my mouth

Clouds swim slowly
through the sea,
the grey and flat,
innocuous sea,
and we walk
and walk and walk,
not hand in hand
but closed, partitioned,
each his own
and hazy island

Our late afternoon
hums the melody
of waves washing over our bare feet,
of pine-trees whispering in the warm breeze,
of our muggy fear
that things could last,
that things could end

As we walk
along the golden beach,
crumbling, empty, tired,
words trickle
but refuse to flow,
and our half-silences
become eternities
imprisoning the grey, flat sea,
the sinking afternoon,
the golden clouds,
the sultry sky

Our burning truths, unspoken,
make my gums bleed
and fill my mouth
with ash and iron

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