We always follow the tracks of tricycles in the sand,
little, bitty roads that lead us to sea,
born of the passion that once existed, ring on hand,
between the distance between you and me.
Swept away; high tide lets us remember the things that never were, or were always supposed to be,
you wrote a note beneath a castle made with a child's delicate hands,
"The water cascades here, beneath the current we'll be just fine. Follow me, follow me."
I lost myself; somewhere between the hospital and the vows of our heart,
these near misses are measured by the washup from the surf.
Grains of sand carried beyond the breaker with no chance, no false start.
When the shoreline loses to the reef, the motion of the aquatic, does it hurt?
He got buried beneath a swell of salt,
you smiled and took my hand,
said, "Honey, it's not our fault."
There's no fingers to point,
no God to blame,
his little eyes closed,
the water crashed at our feet,
he never had a name.