Love Letter

You said, no one goes to the beach in a leather coat, yet you did, because it was February, the sky a light minty green, cool air stuck to your copper hair, and you said, I'm freakin' bored, and here's what we're going to do, because always you were the one moving, rushing forward while I followed, you said, watch this, and I watched you like always I was the one watching you, you picked up nests of driftwood, a snorkel and a strange goggle someone left behind, and you said, turn around, don't look, and I turned around looking not at you but the horizon, the waves crashing on my soggy shoes, pebbles smoothed by the ocean, and you said, don't look are you looking, and I shook my head, and heard you giggling, heard you shredding, breaking and cracking wood and even a joke, and you said, now turn around, and there you were, all goggled up, pieces of driftwood sprouting from the tube, your eyes glazed, and you said, what if none of this were real, what if you and I don't exist, what if our memories were implanted, and then you said, what are you doing, when I laughed at your silly thoughts and snapped a photo of you looking pensive behind the funky diving mask, and you said, why d'you do that, I hate when you do that, not asking, and you said nothing more, stomped away, and I knew then the honeymoon was over.