Ever Since.

I'm just here to watch the paper lanterns,
and to smell the salt water.
It something I do to overload my senses,
and I've done it since I lost her.

Every year I stand by as the lighters flick,
peripheral vision soaking it in.
I hear the laughter in the background,
dreaming of the moonlight on her skin.

By the end of the night I'll be crying,
banging my head up against the wall.
Remembering the scream and scarlet water.
I'll stumble my way down the hall....

Sometimes I let the waves dance up to my toes,
but I swore that I'd never get in.
Not since I rescued her minutes too late,
and she shook as the salt and wounds mixed.

For the moment I picture her happiness,
see her splashing around with the other kids.
Then of course, the rain sprinkles down,
shattering my instant of almost-bliss.

I put my head in my hands and I shake off the sadness,
inching my way into the dangerous blue.
It's been eleven years since I've gone this deep,
to the spot where I thought I'd rescued.

Her lungs were begging for me to come save her,
the blood just kept coming, I recall.
I made my way with her, up to the sand.
Her scream filled my ears, and I bawled.

I get up to the beach and I grab what she left,
her blanket she slept with, always.
I wrap it around me, her warmth surrounds me,
and the tears, like ocean water, fall down in my daze.