SANTA MONICA BEACH
I will never forget
the luxuriant day we met.
Flowers of paradise, fluted glasses,
flirty Moscato wine.
You, an army pilot.
Me, a dancer.
We were barely 23.
Santa Monica beach was where you
first put your hand in mine.
Your warmth whelmed me.
The sun cast away shadows from
your kind, handsome face.
You returned the fourth week of
every month.
Your dark eyes drew me in,
gentle hands excited my skin.
My pleated blouses, your tan corduroy
The dancer, the pilot.
One day to marry, have children -
One girl, one boy.
Last week, a vacant beach.
The sergeant said they
couldn’t locate your
plane.
Memories masqueraded.
Pain strapped my chest.
a whisper heard, but no one around.
Uncertainty the lone, vital sign
Our love stolen by the
innocent sky.
At night I watch the planes fly over
the beach
where we met.
Your dusk fallen eyes still hold me.
You were my pilot.
About the Creator
Andrea Cladis
Andrea Cladis, MFA is an author, poet, English Professor at Columbia College, spunky fitness professional, & freelance writing consultant/editor. Check out her books, speaking events, and publications on her website - www.tanagerwriting.com
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