THE SALT LINE

At dawn, walking by the beach,
I remember a story—
the story of a boy who fell in love
with an unattainable soul.

The ocean breeze was cold and silent.
A broken table with glass—no petals in sight.
Allow me to revive his soul, if only in words.
The people of this town have forgotten his name,
just another excuse to run from something deeper.

That soul watched over him quietly.
On an old street, littered by those
who’d forgotten how to care,
the boy wandered the city alone—
tents pitched under the burning sun.

Reflections of carelessly made choices
whispered, “I am alone.”
Because this soul—he lived in Oregon.
And if you asked his name,
the boy would never tell you.
You seemed too careless.
You asked again and again,
but he couldn’t recall the color of his shirts.

Only a vague memory lingers—
still imprinted in his mind.
A soul’s heart. I know it…
Because I loved him.

And I remember it—
the silver car,
a wine-colored sofa,
watching him sleep.

“At least this dog loves me,” he once said.
Bushy eyebrows, an 80s Tom Cruise face.
And the messages from those nights
when I felt hopeless…
His tattoo: five birds flying,
left shoulder.
New York City taxi posters.
Everything… fading.

He must’ve been in trouble—
arguments with friends and colleagues.
Just a man trying to survive.
And if losing me helped him find himself,
then let his soul rest in peace.

I had hope.
I arrived at Owen’s Rose Garden.
Graffiti of five birds flying under a bridge—
the same image inked on his back.
I knew it! It had to be a sign.
But still… I never found him.

That’s when I knew he was gone.
Sometimes, I still remember.
And when I dreamed of him, I lost myself.
A garden of rose petals—
like the messages he sent me
on those restless nights.

He made me feel invincible.
And I… I loved him.
But everything ends.

He took a few years off my sentence.
I rebuilt my heart.
Seven years later,
flying home again.

So the story of the boy
and the unattainable soul
lies here—
in the ocean view,
the final image set to fade.

At Mar Vista, a table remains.
I place milk and lilac in a glass.
Each night, I return to refill it.

My son, Tim, and I sit at that table.
Tim doesn’t speak.
His eyes meet mine—calmly.
He laughs, he plays,
then quietly disappears
at 4:28 p.m.
The waves count the seconds.

I look at Tim with salty, distant eyes.
Two minutes left.
Enough time to say goodbye.

At 4:30 p.m., it is only me.
No secrets. Just a final message.

“You know, we had good memories.
I thought you and I were more than friends…
Love, maybe.
I know you’ll remember me when I’m gone.
This is my last cup of lilac in milk.
Keep it in your room.
Or share it with someone you trust.
Because we were just kids,
living in the present—
and we will continue.”

I served him.
Left a fresh lilac in the glass.
Your memory still shines in my heart.
This lilac will live on.

At 4:30 p.m.,
the last wave rose.
I stood up—
and heard my son’s laughter
while Tim stared at the ocean.
Alone.