Hotel Balcony



On the shore’s hotel balcony

watching the orange, descending ripples

of the melodious ancient tide,

the lazy, heavy palms waved

their sickening hands

with the same wind

that carried the Atlantic

8 hours up the coast

to your apartment;

with its echoing smells of you and

your comforting bedroom lights, dimmed.


Outside your window

the sun also screamed,

the mauve sick, coral howl

of dying day.


And your bones are carefully arched

and poised.

Distance does not exist.

Only the boundless turning

of my memory’s line persists,

and insists,

that these times,

these endless miles,

know not a thing at all.


I am left with nothing but

these dying palms,

the flickering on,

and off

of a light across the way,

the forgotten days,

and the vividly palpable notion

that somewhere,

you are fading and ending soundly into sleep,

while the waves of the world brake,


and sink,

into the fluidity of existence.


Liz Foster



Author: circadianrefrain

Female. 26. Writer/Artist

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