By M. Scott Alexander
I stood before the shoreline,
with a whiskey glass in hand,
watching waves crash against the jetty,
when I first saw your ghost.
You stood, fronting the sea,
by the lighthouse—a beacon
to illumine the waters
for the ships sailing by.
You didn’t see; I didn’t call,
only raised my glass to you,
a toast, to someone stripped
from the world all too soon.
Still, I yearned to be taken, too.
I wanted to feel, to remember—
late night walks along the jetty,
even during the December snows.
I ached to feel your warm hands,
hands that once fit perfectly in mine.
But my once full glass is empty,
and the lighthouse lamp burnt out;
ships break upon the beaten coast,
your apparition fades beyond my sight.