West Until We Cannot Walk

West
until we cannot walk,
and must dive into the Pacific or be lost
completely.
I feel that,
even now.

On the shore
where a coastal breeze
reminds there are other homes,

places I've been and loved
or been loved. It didn't have to
end here.
These are choices, after all.
Not accidents
shattering
when you scream
or I stand mute -- each equally loud
and crippled with an inexplicit passion.

We do not know what the other wants.
Haven't for so long,
and this morning
I don't even want to.
That, more broken than we've ever been
so far as I can tell.

The end might take forever
and be no less regrettable than it feels,
now.