Tonight, laying in our bed – feet beached in sheets, salt beads on our brows, salt beads on our cheeks – the thought again about leaving. It was fleeting, like the lighthouse beam that plays across the headland, plays across the bay.
The beam that threads the walls of this charmed room is a silken finger; I love its play across your face; its trace on your shoulder – we are briefly safe.
I remind myself that I love this place, though I do not speak, and maybe this is why the magic fails. I am, after all, merely a boy: a romantic, yes; but unsure (still) of the rules that raise these spells, that make them real.
The beach (between the bed frame and our shape) is still in sight, and though I’m tired, I will float a while tonight. The water’s cold!