The outline of your long overcoat cast a quiver of a shadow on the sand as you walked away, and all I could do was stand there and watch you go. There were words still unspoken, I think right there, standing by the ebbing tide, I knew there always would be, but for now the overwhelm of emotions silenced me. I would recall that moment, and all that it meant, and all that it would later define, over and again, each refresh of remembering a new dissection of could have’s and what if’s. There must be a formulaic solution that adds up to you turning around and facing me, that late afternoon, refusing to walk away. The writer in me always editing things, forever attempting the better rewrite. But despite my life being so much about writing, one cannot write an actual life.
Our ending, though, it may be rewritten someday, if only fictionally, because just as you told me once, I have the soul of a writer, the heart of a thief, and a melodic kind of imagination that never gives up.
Catch the Wind :: Donovan