He hears the seagulls calling from the balcony
The violet hues have replaced the darkness before the dawn
The softest creek from the door and the metal latch finds its home
Footsteps down the stairs; or it is something else now that moves beyond his sight?
Did the waves wash over you completely? Are you alone on the eroding shore?
That he would come to it at last...but the tide has turned, the morning moon
crescent in his eyes, where her light lingers as if a far off star
A long blink. A memory. A ghost.