My blood is tapping out a Morse-code message
against the collar of my coat.
And the thought of one more day with you in a cozy bed-and-breakfast
brings the bile to my throat.
A cold black Christmas spent with you and only you,
nobody here to save us from ourselves.
The soft yielding sand; the grey endless view;
you picking up seashells.
You picking up seashells
from the ground.