Ship Sailed

That ship sailed a long, long time ago. But I am still tethered at the dock. Staring longingly out to sea. I missed the boat, I know. The voyage was never taken. But I am still immersed in salt air. Holiday ticket stuck to my hand with brine.

No other ships came. And I took no photos of her. Standing at the rail smiling. Her arms around another. Now only the fog remains. And the banshee cry of gulls. And the sirens' song. Dead voices. Forever on the waves. Forever in my ears.

My letters went unanswered. No picture postcards arrived. Wishing I was there. Or offering colorful antidotes. Of life afloat. Neither the birth of children or the death of kings. Spurned conversation. Of once forsaken friendships.

The ports she's visited. Are posted on her luggage. Faded decals. Once bright, now buffered by age. A marriage. A son. A daughter. A job. A house. A garden. But my steamer never left the shore. On her orders, the steward let it alone.

I journeyed instead in books and words. As Dante did. In bidding Beatrice farewell. One of a million Irish lads. Who watched their love depart. The body is gone, but the image remained strong. And another slight smile never pried it from my head.

That ship sailed long, long ago. But I see it still. A bottle bobbing in the water. A message from my past. A might have been. A never was. A titanic moment. An unsinkable dream. A wreck of rotting timber. Sitting on a ghostly sargasso sea.