back and such.

by the time i tell you all of this,
you will be forced to listen.
biting your breath against
the heavy-duty, slip-free night.
i will read to you, calmly
and reassuringly - suppressing
every emotion your eyes beg
me to release.
slowly, i will pronounce words
that remind you of your childhood
and your sea-faring father,
who would take you to see Her
at the peak of summer dusk.
the hands he held were little then -
as i remember, thick and fragile -
dirt-covered and easy to lose
if not grasped tightly while
seeping into the waves.
you would watch him tower
against the horizon and wait,
until the constellations stole the sunset
and he would return to you
smelling of a woman - you understood -
your mother could never touch.
you rub your hands together
and feel the skin peel against the grain,
the sound of broken-record breathing
tells me you would do anything to
stop listening.
but i continue
and you remember
shadows against sandboxes,
kitchens full of spoiling pots,
echoes of a car tire bursting
and a tile walkway we stood on
as you brushed aside my hair -
and as i come to a close, I look at
you, align our pupils
and we relive the time
i slipped through your fingers
like sand in the wind