I meant to see you one more time

in that white dress splashed with brine

from the northern coast

where we learned our lessons the first time.

A line assigned to paper,

maybe lines under the eyes.

We meant to write each other,

but it never quite worked out right.

Your eyes were light when there was no light.

The cans are scuttling;

the end of summer brings an allergy to common things.

And you could be on an eastbound train in half a day

but I wouldn't meet you

except on paper and maybe film.

This is not sentiment.

I will not settle this.

This is not pining, Esther, this is crime!

There are clouds coming in with the tide

and I don't blame you but I can't see why

you'd leave me here in this beautiful place,

waiting for beauty

felipe aquino.