Eight Stone Three

I sketched your face in the midst of a bleached sky touching the cool wet sands a great inhale lights the pipe barefoot and loaded tonight. Awaiting the rising red moon ballerinas twirl on the sea wall. Eight stone three drifting away in foggy wispy ocean tendrils guided by ghosts of privateers. Face expressionless; eyes cold grass upon the sand dune quivers. First, you're here; then gone away; One day you’re bright; then you’re just an orb of dull dying, gray light as tears are lost in the falling rain, wretched days full of fears are here. I'm sinking into the charcoal sketch a note left in crayon upon the dash justification as simple as loneliness eight stone three melts into the sea.