an abridged version of the history of sea glass.

Ever noticed the gravity of silence?

How its very weight makes it collapse into itself--

or how it can feel so light it makes our seconds, our minutes

come to a full, screeching stop?

I saw how the gravity of our silence

evaporated my shaking breath,

slowly distilling my heart

as it poured right in, drop by drop,

into a small, sea green bottle,

with the neck tied on a long strand of string,

for her to keep safe as it pressed precariously against

her collarbones and chest.

I saw how she sometimes uncorked the bottle,

allowed small wisps to return to me in those long moments:

Each time her fingers brushed the back of my hand.

Each time I looked anywhere--

the lights, the floor, her earlobes--

except for her eyes.

Each time I talked to her about the upcoming end of the world

just for a miniscule chance to hear her laugh.

I dreaded the day she would accidentally, or knowingly,

completely empty the contents of the bottle;

when she would return it all to its rightful owner,

and toss whatever remains

to be polished into smooth glass stones,

into the ocean and the salt of our silence.