I watched you do a spring-step skip across a Newcastle postcard
holding your breath and taking pictures at magic hour.
Your laugh was natural, like your shivers when the humming tide
purges all of our tracks and sweeps them back to existentialism.
You are wrought with grace and for
every moment that you are a Polaroid
there will be me in a reflection somewhere,
writing words because of you
making even the most ritualistic and meaningless
into something inspired;
how I’ll trace your arm every morning when I’m still dreaming
of another coast in another life.
But still I would choose this moment because
right now, you’re just skipping across the street at magic hour.
Right now, it’s just you and me and our lobster-boat town
and today has left me content because of moments spent with you.