At Gull Pond

I am the soft fold of a silk scarf

as it drops to the sand.

I am the smooth underside of a beach stone.

I am salt and dampness in your mouth.

The weight of you lingers,

leaves an impression on the shoreline

like a chalk outline

at a crime scene.

We swim in soundless waters,

float on surface tension

like watermeal and rootless duckweed.

The afternoon grows long as

we amble through the dunes

and watch the weed raker

clear the pond of invasive life.

Drip drying, I lean, lopsided

against a sandbank, heeding

the horizon, knowing

winter will steal the sun.

And I can’t pretend
I don’t need to replace you.