and so here it is,
the storm that was foretold.

we have nothing left do,
but to walk on the sand.

i know what lives in the sea,
i know what goes to the ocean
to die.

to feel the salted water
beneath our questing feet.

this is not the mythic tale.
we are not liars,
we pick the dandelions and
wish on their soft, white
promises.

promise me; then "promise me" again.

this is the bible of my belief.
black leather with these
little gold letters.

and i believe,
although i know most
promises end up being
lies.

the dangerous
things we make of
each others'
hearts.

this compass tattooed
on my hand.

i was not unwilling.
just unwitting.

i am the ghost in the glass.
full moon waiting
just behind the halo
of clouds, thinning.
disappearing.

we are veiled,
but it is barely so.

i would like to whisper
in your ear,
"people are . . .

                               astounding"

and maybe that is true.

but mostly, dear, sweet heart,


"people are . . .

                              disappointing"