Waiting for the tide to come and kiss my skin like my lover did. Waiting for the sun to fall like I fell for her lips. And, that is to say, in a grand display of orange and red fire that melts to the waves. My heart is the same. Catching a freight back east from L.A. would be romantic, but it just ain’t my way. So, I’ll be waiting again at the Greyhound Station just hoping to get a few more miles today. I know, the life that I paint is a life of restraint, but maybe I’ve found fear by mistake. Either way, I’m not headed her way. So, through the night I roll, just another loner in a pack of whispering headphones, with her photograph in hand, still grasping at the hope that she’ll understand. My heart’s not the drifter. It’s something my body can’t stand, the routine and waiting for it to start over again. So, to the waves, I say, “I’m still her man.”

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