April 8, 2015
This is a chilling afternoon along the Marina walkway to which I’ve never been. Clouds rest over the Golden Gate way out there past these electric, emerald waters that trick the eyes into a blue hue. The bench is all mine and courtesy of the Wilcox family who donated it so that their lost beloved would live on seated besides you. But maybe I really am just alone here, and it’s just what I want.
I want to read this old copy of something by Marquez but his ghost would have me look up, flipping through these pages in the tips of the wind that leaves no one at peace. And when I do look up it’s a wonder that I should want to read at all.
Here on a weekend I’ll look up on strange views except for one, the island of cages and forever surrounded by the ferries that he and I would have taken to get there. We were supposed to go together, then again it’s best we remain on this side of those waters free and roaming, than holding hands behind bars in thinking that we were sentenced to each other for life.