It's just me.
An October afternoon.
Ocean and Ocean and Ocean.
if you keep looking, down the coast
there is only fog.
Only fog and me and sea.
I imagine him before I see him.
Slow walk just above the water line,
the fog catching up behind him,
fantastical cape.
The rational me, the me that is willing to sacrifice everything - even my breath - for the illusion of normalcy,
tells me he will walk by, acknowledge me with a half wave, and continue down the shoreline.
The darker part of me, the part I trust and ignore,
assures me the stranger is coming for me.
I am the destination.
The finish line.
I can see him now. A small stick figure,
growing a bit with each step.
He's smiling, I imagine.
He's hungry, I know.
After there will be only fog.
I will be less than mist.
So I sit here, on this October day,
waiting for the stranger and the friendly half wave
that will never come.
