Residual tar has iron boots imprinted by the bar where I never go while awake.

I have never shut my eyes to the glory of those that rub sea salt between their calloused fingers.

With sideways glances we speak of a tourmaline rimmed well of dreams, that hold the most perfect seashells.

At the pit where the sun never dives into our humanly sequences in metaphors, suddenly, the fog became our breath in a monotone of swept over tidal wave.

The pitch of the drowning held hands in our voices as we went down slow into our days of tainted white, and sea spray sweat.

How each was a hardened stone that cracked open on the pavement of palms.

I could not give flowers for my condolences, only my hand on a back whose heart bloomed within the bosom.

People with fire and watery eyes.

The pain it subsides within the ocean in the irises...Mirrored glances.

Some cannot feel the blaze of cauterized wounds that look like black parasols fighting the wind of sad whims…

 

But, I feel them.

Dreaming.

 

© Mimi Caneda Mata