She wanted a home. Now she stands. Feet buried in sand, surrounded by Sinatra blue water. He waves from the shore, figure diminished against the shadow of pleated mountains. A coastline only stretches as wide as the tips of your fingers. Your open arms. A coastline only stretches as far as the echo of your last laugh. The distance it sprinted. The number of skips it landed on placid water, ringlets reverberating from every point of contact. It only takes Ocean to reach its sinuous arms across the midwest and hold up a mirror to each. Ocean to leave a briny trail of breadcrumbs away from what they thought was home but was only house. Was only familiar. Because scorched earth makes way for new beginnings. She can fashion paintbrushes from blackened bramble and soot. He can only dream in the moment when the smoke finally clears. So he puts his head down and works instead. To the sound of computer keys, the click of ballpoint pens, the ringing in his head when it’s one AM and the desk lamp pulses with every heartbeat. But also, he works to the sounds he cannot hear. The ones farther away. The whisper of waves, jangle of new house keys, buzz of chatter in a busy city from faces that look like his. Watch them run down the beach, only air in tow. In twenty years she’ll be holding a wide brimmed sun hat to cover her scars. He won’t have glasses anymore. The ocean behind them will be made up of tears. But for now, he’ll work her foundation, she’ll paint him a home. The space in their heads is paneled with white. Over time water will seep in. The tides will bring pebbles, then stones, then a whole layer of sediment. Their bodies will change. Their lungs will learn to depend on golden light, their stomachs on fresh fruit. But their feet will always remain rooted to the land.
He asked for her hand
Two travelers on a coast
Before them the sea