"I was the same, but I was waiting for myself on the shore to return."  -   Murakami

 
IIt is a difficult time. You wait
for the return of yourself.
You sit on the pier, watching
pelicans pirouette in the air,
weightless for a moment

before diving into the water.
The sound of their splash
reminds you of something
you just can’t quite remember.
You sit there, eating fish after fish,

washing them down with beer.
You have started counting seagulls
and giving them long Spanish names.
You choreograph ballets, create architectural
drawings of dreams, and have begun to build

a home out of seashells. On weekends,
people come just to see you waiting
for your own return. “Where did you go?”
they ask, and you simply shrug.
You make new friends and take up painting,

creating self-portraits,  your image is repeated
like the latitude and longitude lines on a map.
Each morning, you lean against the railing,
and the seagulls join you. You’ve made them
tiny red scarves that they all wear. All of you

stare, still as glass, as if any movement might
blur your vision. Together, you watch the sea,
straining to see yourself coming back, straining
to catch a glimpse of the prow of a boat

cutting through the silver morning water.