She was bright last night,
sure of herself, needing nothing,
and something in my chest
took that brightness
for a door closing.
So the mind stopped the reel
on a single frame
and called it the whole film,
and asked the old question,
what if I am not needed at all?
This morning, sitting,
the frame began to move.
There she was on Tuesday, unsure.
There she was, quiet, in between.
There she was laughing,
and none of it a verdict,
only one frame, then the next,
water rising and falling
under a small boat.
I knew that water.
I have been lifted by it
and called the lifting mine.
I have been dropped by it
and called the dropping forever.
Pleasant, unpleasant, neither,
the same three tides
under every hull.
So I am not on the shore
watching her drift.
I am on the bench beside her,
two passengers,
neither one steering the sea.
And when the sun breaks through
on her side of the boat,
warming her face and not mine,
I know how good that is.
I know how long the gray can last.
The sting still comes.
It is one frame too,
and I make room for it on the bench,
the way I would for anyone
who had been out in the cold.
I did not make her light.
I do not have to.
It is enough to sit here,
glad of the sun on her face,
not asking where it came from,
not asking it to stay.