On the ocean’s shore, you wash up, at 9:30 AM, and I find you, again. Just as the last time, we fall into each other’s arms, once again, like leaves when summer passes. I take my washrag, my quartered square of fabric, and I dab each drop of excess moisture from your cold, shivering body. I bring you inside, and I place you on fabric woven by my grandmother. I heat the blankets with my lifebreath and with the blood from my skin. You are not completely covered, so the air has room to touch you with its healing pulse.

You always wake up with fear in your eyes. You tell me about your life before. Not knowing when you could eat, when you would have safe shelter for sleep. You say there was never a time you were still, that you existed in a constant state of motion, even while you rested, your dreams are of someone ready for flight.

I listen, rapt. It does not matter where on my biorhythm cycle I lie, for I will listen to you, rapt. I do not know how you disappear at night. The second day that you arrived, pushed unkindly by the waves, finding purchase on sand that is soft, but not kind; on that night I stayed up, while you slept fitfully, your whimpers not unheard, your shudders not unseen. My soul was weary as my skin, but I kept watch over you, carefully. Yet at that moment, that night, I did not blink, and you were gone. The bed empty, but for warmth where once your body lied. I checked my watch, and it told me the time as 4:00 AM. I could not sleep before morning light dripped through my bedroom’s window.

This morning, the morning of the third day, I awoke from dreams of fire, dreams of lead, of shattering glass. I checked my watch, and it told me the time as 7:30 AM. I trembled, and I made my way to the beach, and I slept on its coarse grit. I awoke when I felt you nearing, on the relentless push of the ocean water. You awoke with fear in your eyes. I listened, rapt. You tell me about your life, before. There is terror in my heart. It does not matter where on my biorhythm cycle I lie, for I will listen to you, rapt.

I bring you inside, and I nurse every part of you that you will show to me. I kiss the blade of your shoulder, and I drain your wounds. I begin to hear the words of your sentences inside myself before you speak them aloud.

Night falls, as I reach a companionate fever pitch. There is no more left to be said. I know that you need your rest, and I entrust myself to it, perforce. Time ticks onward. I have decided that tonight I will watch more closely, and as the witching hour approaches, I brew myself a beverage of vigilance. I return at 3:03AM and find my bed as empty as a husk.

My face tear-stained and wet, my nightshirt dripping, I am broken. I rush to the shore, uttering silent promises, cries that I will not betray any longer. I fall asleep, quivering on the shore, waiting.

It is 9:30 AM, and I awaken, my internal clock learning, now unfailing. There you are, again, like leaves when summer passes. The fear in your eyes is familiar, and comforts me. You tell me about your life before. I listen, rapt. It does not matter where on my biorhythm cycle I lie, for I will listen to you, rapt.

It is the fourth day, and anything onto which I hold, no matter how tightly, will be released from my hands at night, by my body’s unconscious betrayal of my heart, the relaxed betrayal of sleep. I permit myself no rest while you are here, and there are tears in my eyes at 1:59 AM, as the conclusion is all but preordained. I check my watch, and it tells me the time as 2:00 AM. I scream, and there is no one else to hear my screams echo in my empty home.

It is the fifth day. At 9:30 AM, I rush into the water and I embrace you. At first it pierces me as an awful cold, then it is overtaken by pure and nameless sensation. I kiss you on the lips, and I draw the poison water from your lungs, with forceful inhales. I splutter and cough into the ocean, giving it back some of what you had received, and that I had received from you. At 1:00 AM, your leave is taken. I weep.

6 & 12

7 & 11

8 & 10

9 & 9

10 & 8

11 & 7

12 & 6

13 & 5

14 & 4

15 & 3

16 & 2

17 & 1

18 & 12

19 & 11

On the twentieth day, on the ocean’s shore, you wash up, at 9:30 AM, and I find you, again. Just as the last time, we fall into each other’s arms, once again, like leaves when summer passes. I take my washrag, my quartered square of fabric, and I dab each drop of excess moisture from your cold, shivering body. I bring you inside, and I place you on fabric woven by my grandmother. I heat the blankets with my lifebreath and with the blood from my skin. You are not completely covered, so the air has room to touch you with its healing pulse.

You awaken with fear in your eyes, and I soothe you. I tell you that I am an old friend, and that you are a long way from home. I tell you that you will be going back soon. Your eyes close halfway, then fullway, and you are adrift, drifting on the waves of a dream, somewhere. I stare at your face, trying to commit each blemish and wrinkle to memory.