The X On Your Map

Lost it when it was no longer to have been had,   

the sensations exist to me like a phantom.

It was in form, flowing in states of being –   

frequent in pattern, our senses synced.

Then, senses synced stranger till they synced again, stranger.

You’ve asked this before,

“my heart is buried in the sand to be washed away for later.”

If you can beat the tide, I’ll know you stayed up all night to do so.   

Scaring yourself awake on time had grown tiring.

It coursed again through me in waves that missed you that day.

The cascading foam danced for a little while longer at each pass.

Must’ve been a slow mourning.