Same stone pier.

Same circumstances.

Same wooden bench.

Same haircut.

Twenty years later,

still sitting here,

waiting on the storm surge.

 

Thought I could get away,

but all the airports

in the world,

just led me back here.

The world is a globe.

They say,

if you run far enough,

you end where you began.

 

I watch the grey waves

crash along the beach

and in the roar

I hear voices

that once made promises.

They’re broken just the same,

sucked back out to sea.

A never ending cycle

of absence and injury.

 

I remember saying

I’d never come back here.

Thought I had run

far enough

to outpace my pain,

but here I am,

staring at that

rolling, grey sky,

just feeling those first

few drops of rain.

 

Will the storm break me?

Will it take me away?

The wind responds

by blowing sea spray

high into the air,

as if to say,

“I’m waiting.”

 

I am not the man I was

the last time I faced the storm.

I’ve seen a few more

since then.

My skin is thick,

and my coat is warm.

 

Thunder rumbles

our there, in the distance,

as the clouds catch the Sun

and the sky darkens.

Soon,

the waves will reach this bench,

where I sit now.

 

But I will not be here.

I have decided

there are other storms,

ones less predestined,

that need observing.

 

One last breath,

of that violent

sea spray air.

It seems,

that the storm comes

for everyone.

 

 

HG – 2021