Tide

It was my idea to open the front door and let the tide in. The water was quick to
swallow the smaller things. Goodbye coffee table, farewell blanket box, both went beneath the surface and both were lost. You tried to gather the
sentimental items. CDs we bought together, photo albums, your
favourite dressing gown. You were trying to cradle them along
your forearms, clutching them tight with your fingertips
as the waters lapped your thighs and then your hips,
sloshing and slapping against the wallpaper,
the same we put up together.

It took quite some time for you to let them go.
I had to ask, knowing it’d make it easier.
Relax, I said. You sat in the armchair,
and before you could put your feet
upon the footstool, it was sucked
out through the front door and
inhaled into the sea outside.

Let them go, I said, and you followed.
The soft plop of things sinking from
your hands, plucked by the waves
hungry for more. Our fingers
locked and you smiled as
the waters finally took
the grandfather clock.
We watched as it tick
tocked it’s way until
we could barely
hear it, and we
were left with
our hearts
beating in
our chests.

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2 thoughts on “Tide

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