Forty Six

Perfect summer’s evening.

I’m in my cotton dress. You’re suited.
We laugh.

There’s breeze. There’s silence.

I walk the wall, flip-flops in hand.
You, dear gentleman, put out your cigarette in abject worry.

I stop. I look at you.
Help.
You proffer your hand, promise with a nod.

Mister Death, I remember your eyes most.

Forty Five

He held my hand with conviction, thirty hours into knowing I existed,
Pointing out stars shining on wet, wet sand.

One chin tilting forty five degrees upward, Z Axis.
The other, forty five down.

Snug in the depth of his voice, through his chest.
Giggling, tickled by bubbles bursting between our toes.
Ankle-deep in love.