I told you I would wait for you to go; I said it aloud, both to you and myself, as I stood there watching children build kingdoms out of wet sand with plastic shovels. You said nothing in return.
Today you shone blood-red above the horizon. People stopped to marvel at your brilliance. Did you notice the woman who froze to snap pictures of you? Perhaps you did; perhaps you were even flattered by the attention, but it was late and you were tired. You hid your face in the clouds and within five minutes you were gone, leaving only traces of pink behind. I turned around, took fourteen steps ahead, then stopped to look back at you, as people do in the movies (I am thinking Charlotte staring after Bob in “Lost in Translation”), and saw the last pink vestiges of the day – the last of you – fade into the evening blue. The sky was now clear and sunless. This was a scene wiped clean. You were never here.