June

It would be perfect.
The Sky, the sand, the sea, all in balance.
Her hand in mine as we cross the border between earth and sky,
Her laughing in the surf as it pulled on her feet,
Her grabbing my hand to steady herself as she stared out.
A thoughtful look on her face, in her eyes,
I would already see her pen moving across her notebook,
words flying out as she wrote what she saw into the page,
her eyes only leaving the crashing waves once finished,
a new masterpiece to join the others in that little black book.
Her poems were always the thing that let me in.
I could see the world through her eyes in them.
I look out, and I see the waves,
how they crash unending against the shore, 
like armies marching against a great eternal enemy,
or like sand flying in the wind against the dunes,
or perhaps like light moving across the world in a wave.
She was always better at this than me.
It is up to me then, to remember, to interpret,
to fill her book with new things,
to look at the world through her eyes again,
to hear her telling me excitedly what she saw,
explaining every word and pause,
every grain of sand a place on her art.
For that is what she did in writing.
Painting beautiful pictures in words.
At last though, In bittersweet memory,
I sign the page, not with her looping script,
but rather my plain cursive,
Although, I would have given anything to have her there,
for her to take the book from me, 
laugh at my clumsy attempts to capture the moment,
before she would smile and put her hand on my shoulder,
turn me out to the ocean again, and show me everything,
for her to point out details I had missed.
Show me the cries of the gulls,
the silkiness of the high clouds,
the hues of the sunset.
Every word was beautiful on her lips.
Lips I remember, touching my own.
Soft as sunshine, and twice as warm.
I know she would've wanted to be here.
I wonder what she would make of it.
June...