A Memoir

The ocean speaking from its mystery,

Your flute sang out to a ceiling of stars,

So close to heaven on that lifeguard chair,

Where in a soft voice I sang harmony,

And gathered seashells, broken ones with scars,

But you touched nothing else but my long hair.

All of this time, I’ve kept the memory,

Of holding hands and climbing the sandbar,

The thermos of hot Ovaltine you shared,

Speaking of the Beatles and Debussy.

Perhaps one day you will read this memoir.

I tried but could not find you anywhere.