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The Last Time I Saw the Ocean

by Aaron Blair

Before I left you,
we went once more to the shore
of the dirty grey Atlantic,
to watch the sun rise above
the filth spilling from the Delaware.
It didn't speak to me the way it had,
and you hated me for not staying,
even though you wouldn't say it.
I hated myself for being me,
for running from the chance
you offered me, to live a life unshackled
from the bonds of family, of memory.
It was the last time I saw the ocean,
and part of what had made us drowned in it.
You held it under the water,
the idea that you could fix me,
the idea that I would allow myself to be fixed.

01/15/2011

Author's Note: In 2005, I was living in Delaware, near Philadelphia, with my boyfriend. I hated it there. I cut myself constantly. I eventually tried to kill myself. So I moved back home to Indiana. Without him. One of the last things we did together was go to the beach, because I wanted to see the ocean again, before I moved back to the middle of the country. He moved here, a year and change later, but then, I didn't know if I would see him again, or if I'd ever see the ocean again. As it turns out, I haven't seen the ocean again. The last time I was anywhere near it was the boardwalk in Atlantic City, at night, in March, and I couldn't see a thing. I could hear it, and smell it, but I'm a photographer. The sight is the thing.

Posted on 01/15/2011
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Blair

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 01/15/11 at 09:31 PM

And I'd say this piece is as vivid as any photograph.

Posted by Meghan Helmich on 08/25/11 at 02:05 PM

Gabe said it.

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