In the wet sand you drew a love heart, and inside,
I wrote our names, although they didn’t quite fit.
When the tide turned, it washed everything away;
as if I had never been there; no trace, not even a footstep,
just beer cans washed up on the beach.
We lit a fire on the beach. Flames gyrated hypnotically, seductively.
The burning heat was on the knife edge between pleasure and pain.
I knew I shouldn’t get too close, but I couldn’t move away.
Sparks flew. In the morning, when the fire died, it left only cold, passionless ash.
Time was up, so I packed the tent and you sat on the rocks smoking.
“Any chance of a hand,” I said. The wind blew the tent like a balloon.
“Any beer left,” you asked.
“Bit early for that?” I said. But it wasn’t too early; it was too late.
When the train pulled into Gilmour Street Station, we both gathered our things and disembarked.
We kissed goodbye; both of us knew this was the end of it.
You called a taxi. I walked home in the rain, turning my face to the clouds,
letting the downpour clean everything away.