Home was his lofty 26th floor condo
Marble floors. Smooth. Cold. Moneyed.
Elevators silent. Floating up and down.
Depositing strangers. An occasional meow.
The tabby cat next door. Neighbours home.
He always arrived edgey. Slowly unwound.
Home. Yet not. Looking down on city lights.
Impossible to see stars in the city’s glare.
He was a searcher of stars. A keeper of light.
And he kept a single lamp burning. 100 Kilowatts.
On a glass table on a glassed-in balcony.
He might be away months. The lamp burned.
It was an invisible moon by day. And flared at night.
Le Phare au Bout de Monde, he imagined wryly.
The ‘Jules Verne’ inside of him. The boy.
The romantic in him had wandered far.
Traipsed endless ragged shores and cities.
Back home, he always thought of being elsewhere.
In his mind he wandered along a lone beach.
Barefoot. Silent. A prisoner. An exile.
Abandoned in San Juan de Salvamento.
At times, he was a Cape Race wireless clerk
Receiving a desperate SOS on an icy night in 1912.
If he didn’t escape to such places. Where could he go?
He would only think of her.
And find himself saying goodbye again.
Their parting, windswept. Like the weather that day.
Harsh words. Unintended. Irrevocable. Foolish.
Since then he had photographed coastlines.
And had always left a light on. For her.
She had been fearful of the dark, she said.
And staring at blackened rainslick streets
He wondered what would happen if he called her.
Instead, he finished a Perrier. Dimmed the lights.
Except for the Light at the End of the World
It was always on. And often before he fell asleep
He wondered where on earth she was and if she knew.
He would always wait. And stand. A lighthouse.
©2013 S. Michaels
Seven Love Stories – David & Claire