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**Author's Note: This was sincerely written about my last night in West Palm Beach. I just finished it over a cigarette and a glass of wine. It might not be completely coherent, but, then again, neither was the night. "What's wrong?" I can hear it all now. I don't want my ears to partake in that anymore. "You know what's wrong, so tell me." I've lost too many people over those lines. I've lost too much to answer. I allow my hands to cover my face, move silently through my hair as my eyes scour the floor of the truck hoping for an appropriate answer. I give up, look up. She's still watching, waiting. It's amazing how noisey silence is. We begin to converse once again. Rather, she's talking to me, I haven't much to say. I've heard it all before, different forms, yet still not wanting to believe. Tense. Listening. Hoping. Destination. We get out of the truck and I want my tears. I accept a cigarette instead. Walking. Meeting. Me, sitting in the sand with Mike. Robyn and Nicole playing half-naked in the water. Patrick, off to the side, not really gone, but not really there (as is normal with Patrick). I feel at ease with Mike. I tell him what's upsetting me as if he were some priest at a confession session. He feels odd, I know it. Robyn and Nicole get out of the water. Mike and Nicole walk. Robyn crashes in front of me. She's shivering. She explains that I'll not loose her, but it feels as though I already have. I'm groping the sand with my feet, holding on to her back as if it were the Holy Grail. I tell her. I tell her what I've lost. I tell her of all that question had cost me. Once more, "You're not going to loose me." And again, I want my tears. I accept an embrace instead. A world of doubt, an embodiment of confusion, lies; inside and out, "a life of confessions, written in the dust." We embrace. Hold. . . and leave.
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