I Remember the Sea

I stand
my feet in the surf,
my toes in the sand.
My skirt clings to my legs;
my hair whips at my face.
I turn my eyes to the endless horizon of waves.

You never came.

I speak.
There is no response but
the growl of the sea.
A new wash of foam swirls at my feet.

I stand and I glare at the tempest I once called home.
I grab my hair and wrestle it back into a bun
and I tie it there.
Loose strands immediately defy me;
wiggle about my face.
I hug myself close, just as defiantly,
and stare into the empty gaze
of the compassionless sea.

It is not a far-away look that plays;
It is not the look of the sea reflected in my eyes
in my face
anymore.

I am angry.

You never came.

You promised me.
You promised me first, you know.
But I released you from that promising
didn't I?
I let you go.

God let you go.

And that is who I have to blame
in this broken, empty, wind-swept place
inside
How I want to scream and hate
the salt-tinged, heart-eroding tide.
But the ocean didn't take you.

You just never came.