A thin fog floats in the space where she once resided, spirit-like, or perhaps a mirage, a wish for this, which hovers on the horizon, unattainable save in the imagination, when on the high seas I spy tall masts of a ship that has already set sail without me, lost in the haze, beyond my voice to recall. I watch from the widow’s walk for something I know will not return, churning up all that was so that the beach below is littered with the detritus of memory yet not what is, vague shapes floating through the mist of my hear to which I put names and a sense of important when they are merely figments of something I ache for but can no longer have.
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