black point

half of me is the ocean
hugging a cement-flattened jetty
where little boys inside of their skins
beg the cold sun to sing them out to sea;
where they ask bits of salt and sand
to cling to their hairs and ankles
so that i can go with them
wherever they go
hugging them like a jetty
and smelling of a journey in reverse
calling them back to a place
once called home;
now i, little child
shiver, ask the same of myself, my better half.
"i lost many futures," i say from the inside of my skin,
holding the tide at bay
both halves of me hugging the jetty
too afraid of my own current
to wash the grit from my hair
"i lost many futures," i say again
in case i didn't hear
the first time around
"we all did," i echo back
and press my weight into the jetty once more.