by Adam Sifre

It's just me.

An October afternoon.

Ocean and Ocean and Ocean. 

if you keep looking, down the coast

there is fog.

Only fog and me and sea.

I imagine him before I see him.

Slow walk just above the water line, 

the fog catching up behind him,

fantastical cape.

The rational me, the me that is willing to sacrifice everything - even my breath - for the illusion of normalcy, 

tells me he will walk by, acknowledge me with a half wave, and continue down the shoreline. 

The darker part of me, the part I trust and ignore,

assures me the stranger is coming for me.

I am the destination. 

The finish line.

I can see him now. A small stick figure,

growing a bit with each step.

He's smiling, I imagine.

He's hungry, I know. 

After there will be only fog.

I will be less than mist.

So I sit here, on this October day,

waiting for the stranger and the friendly half wave

that will never come.