Waypoints


    Waypoints like breadcrumbs,


    winding through the forests.


    String like spiderwebs,


    crossing the labyrinth,


    something I can tug on


    when the Minotaur


    rears his ugly pride.


    Modern-day dating,


    like attending the boxing match,


    only to find the gloves sheathed


    over your hands like shields.


    Front and center in the ring.


    The others don’t fight fair,


    knives sharpened, fingernails


    dug into their prey like coifed wolves,


    perfect white fangs gleaming.


    Steal a moment with a man—


    tossing the frisbee or grabbing ice cream


    or baking Brazilian French toast—


    and face their wrath. Homer’s mermaids


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    would have fled the scene.


    Leave me just enough light to see by.


    Don’t leave your post by the lighthouse.


    The sea writhes with lovesick dreamers,


    and I only seek the peace of shallow waters,


    friends, not lovers. Enough waypoints


    and I’m churning deep water.


    If I have to swim the whole ocean, I will—


    Message in a bottle


    Walking by the beach,


    picking up bottles, hoping


    one will contain my name.


    Feet sinking into the sand


    as my heart settles like stones


    to the ocean floor. The sun was young


    when I began leaving footprints


    along the shore like helicopter seeds


    spread from the sighs of the old ash.


    Beach towels fill the coast,


    pinks and oranges as far


    as the sky is high,


    girls chatting with friends,


    girls reading a novel under sun


    umbrellas, girls tapping away


    at phones, girls snoozing in the heat.


    I’m tripping over girls like cracks


    in the sidewalk, eyes at sea,


    watching the bobbing messages just waiting


    for someone to break them open.


    On a beach an ocean away you walk,


    eyes to the sea, looking for me.