Waterline

 

It's way past noon
down
an almost empty avenue
one wonders
where Mary is going
the one that maybe
not even she would be
the one
you wouldn't dream of
not even half
of what she once had been
despite
having inspired poetry rhyme
and having breathed
the salt in that sea air
standing still
waiting for what would never
come back
pearls or emeralds and baubles
fish and shells
and sounds in a euphoria
that only the brightness
of stars would imitate
the black hair
that I would only caress
with the deserted fingers
of apathy
tear that runs
without paralysis
mouth that screams
its monotony
and suffer and suffer
for another day
only the horizon serves
as a guide
to the dry look
at the empty hand.