With moments to live, he chose to spend what time there was left in his life with me. Never wanting much, just additional time alone with me. Another night together in a warm bed was all he asked for. To be snuggled in comfort, his worries put at ease in my arms, as darkness set in. He should have said something or told me that he was going to die very soon. I went on with life as if it were eternal, not always granting him the time with me that he longed for just moments before death wrapped its cold, black fingers around his purple heart.
Unlike other lovers I have known, he loved the sea too. Summer was when we fell in love. Who knew he adored riding waves in the cold Atlantic waters off the coast of Long Island? I had done that alone for many summers while those I loved stayed at home because they could not stand the sand. Off to white beaches with chips of violet shells scattered among the white sand we ran when the weather permitted. Aboard a train with a blue plastic cooler, towels, lotion and a hefty staff of weed, I rode with Jesus to the water.
Away from the crowds of bathers who tossed themselves as seals before a resting Neptune midday sun, we found our spot along the beach. Carefree with just a few other loners around, we stripped our heavy clothing from our bodies and quickly entered the bubbling white-capped waves. Over and over again we entered the seas, only to be tossed as children upon the land from which we crept.
With soggy fingers we returned to the spot in the sand with the blue cooler hidden behind stacks of shoes. He lit his brown blunt, offering me the first hit, carefully wiping my lips from salty water that fell from my hair and brow as tears of joy.
All day without food, in the water we fasted until the sun pulled its red rose fingers from above and evening sank quickly upon the red wine sea.
He begged to sleep with me. I was too tired. I wanted to go home alone and wash the sand from my hair. Enough of him– an entire day in the sea. I needed time alone.