Sandcastles

My hand isn't proficient at writing,

And despite my mind molding this language

My hand cannot find what tongue it is spoken in.  

 A  Rosetta stone lost from my fingernails,

There is something lost in these translations.

There is no common denomination of what can be said,

And what isn't.

We never said a lot, did we?

Still my hand never skips a beat when it is writing about you.

It was the twenty love notes and seven goodbye letters that led my hand into this deep pit of shitty penmanship.

My hand has forgotten how to write,

Forgotten how to transform myself into ink and explore the rugged mountains of a blank page.

And It stayed empty for a long time,

Until scribbles became letters, and letters became words that I used to reach out to you.

Sentences becoming the only hook that could onto you,

Because I was never skilled at holding your hand,

From the way my heart tightened your grasp,

To the time your fingers slipped away, 

I miss them.

Those moments at night when the only sound you can hear is two different pitched whispers.

To all those nights I spent trying to focus your telescopic vision that has always seen right through me.

Back when the fog on the horizon made the sky look like it was on fire,

And it blazed along with the warmth of your smile.

When the salty air spread over our breath in the early hours of the morning,

We were left walking these beaches,

Jumping over every sidewalk crack,

Skipping that soundtrack to that one song we knew all the lyrics to

And dancing in the break of the waves that were constantly crashing over my sandcastles.

I built those for you.

I've been practicing making sandcastles,

Under every summer sun I spent without you,

Not knowing who you were.

I miss the sound of your name for the first time,

The way it tiptoed across my tongue,

Kind of like the first time I said “I love you”

When we were sitting underneath the stars.

Do you ever take the time to look up at those same stars?

 I have, and yes,

Maybe I have been building sandcastles too often.
And haven’t spent enough nights walking these beaches,
Where we could lay there,
and greet the abyss of space with  open hearts,

And hear how humbled we could be if we listened to the world.
At night, we would return to that coastline,

Allowing the earth to move beneath our feet,

And leave the memory of our presence muddled in a water filled puddle,

Watching our feet leap over the reflection of the last rays of sunshine scratched into the earth,

Feeling time glide across the surface of the water…

And land in our hands.

I remember the way the salt felt on your finger when you ran it over my forehead…

How I looked in your eyes and questioned the depths of their perception,

Allowing my sonar ridden pupils

To see if they could echo in your mind.