Death of a Nihilist [poetry]

32. a moon slice on white tide

something swims in this sudden

august afternoon, rippling

to the gentle, insistent taps

of a dying blue ballpoint pen tip.

and i watch the reflection of the bright grey sky

presses downward,

dragging across half-wrinkled paper.

under your hand, your signature splutters into form.

and i count the concentric circles

dissipate within the shallow puddles

gathering on cracked cement sidewalks.

as you wrangle your initial

next to mine. both sitting,

small and hunched,

between the dashed lines

that bears the wrong date of our love,

the wrong words of our vows.

there's a missing loop in your middle name

where fresh and old crooked scars

still scabbed over your reddened knuckles.

there's a darkened scratch tearing across my last name

where bandages wrapped tightly my wrists,

still bleeding and aching from the dull blade.

but i examine the shadow of your broad back

against the distorted raindrops tracks

smearing down translucent window panes,

while you listen to the hollow wind

chasing meaningless circles

around desolated corners.

both of us not talking,

just waiting.

staring,

till the poorly-stitched seams of the sky's being

burst. breaking

into furls of bubbles and clouds,

like the currents rushing into the opened mouth,

teeming through a thousand teeth,

of a dazed great white.