For P.W.

Five thousand versions of the same thing...

I could write a thousand lines on you, on the feeling of sitting here and wanting nothing more, and nothing less, than to send you silent invitations; even now I feel them burning, out of my eyes and towards your face; all I want is to touch your face, as nature intended, but now there will be nothing, because I have to sit here.

I could write a thousand lines on you, on the feeling of sitting here and wanting nothing more, and nothing less, than to send you silent invitations; even now I feel them burning, out of my eyes and towards your face; all I want is to touch your face-- as nature intended—but for now it’s all emptiness, because I have to sit here.

I could write a thousand lines on you, on the feeling of sitting here and wanting nothing more, and nothing less, than to give you silent invitations. And even now I feel them, rising out of my burning eyes, focused towards your face. All I want is to touch your face-- as nature intended—but for now it’s all emptiness, because I have to sit here.

I could write a thousand lines on you, on the feeling of sitting here and wanting nothing more, and nothing less, than to give you silent invitation. And even now I’m doing just that, my burning eyes focused on your face. All I want is to touch your face-- as nature intended—but for now it’s all emptiness, because I have to sit here.


Final (for now):

I could write a thousand lines on you, on the feeling of sitting here and wanting nothing more than to give you silent invitation; even now I’m doing just that, my burning eyes focused on your face. All I want is to touch your face—as nature intended—but for now it’s all emptiness, because I have to sit here.

Lighthouse

My heart rate is the only thing that’s irregular here. The sun shines steadily overhead, and the humidity continues to hang close over the water. The waves crash against the rocks, the rocks that hold the whole thing up. The lighthouse has been here for a hundred and thirty-three years, he told us.

He lives for lighthouses. He spends every weekend on this one, helping to renovate it. He’s wearing a shirt with the “Lighthouses of the East Coast” illustrated on the back. He rambled excitedly whole tour: And here’s one of our most recent improvements!! We were able to buy these beautiful shutters thanks to our generous donors--

I think I love him.

The seagulls continue to screech. There are sailboats in the distance. The lighthouse sits in the middle of the bay, only accessible by boat—today, a little crabbing boat. He’s standing just inside it, helping the tourists, holding their arms as they step over from the dock underneath the lighthouse.

I don’t trust myself to touch him, even for a few seconds. My grandmother took his hand, climbed in. I’m the last one in line. I hold my camera behind my back, slide open the battery door. He talked too much. Sometimes my wife and I stay out here overnight. I felt for the SD card, took it out. He held my sister’s arm as she carefully crossed the gap. Put it in my pocket. Why the hell would he tell us that? My turn. I step up to the edge. The bay is wide around me and at the center is his arm, his hand. His voice, “Wait til the waves bring it high enough!” The boat goes down. The boat comes up—

I let the camera slip out of my hand. It hits the water with a splash loud enough to perfect catch his attention. I grab a rope pull myself over land on the deck. I leap fully out of his reach.

And everyone realizes what happened and starts to exclaim at once: was that oh no what a shame! And then all the thank-you-for showing-us and I know I should say something but I still don’t trust myself so I manage a thank-you which is lost in the general din, and then the boat is moving off. He’s back on the lighthouse and he’s waving and everyone else waves, so I do too, and he turns and goes in and after a while the lighthouse gets smaller, and I can still see him outside walking around on the deck, and then inside opening windows, and then smaller, and smaller, and it’s all gone, behind the horizon.


~


That night, half awake, half asleep, I saw black sky, black water, and the lighthouse, ten times larger than life, and brilliant, he and his wife the warm glow at the center of its beams stretching out for miles, toward where I live, which is too far inland, and in darkness.