Amnesia

My trail of footprints sinks into the sand
like a long, rambling confession;
the ins and outs of two years
of extreme loneliness.

I envy this beach.
There is no pock-mark of a pebble
blemishing its golden, liquid complexion.
(A kiss that should never have happened.)

Nor is there a scattering of broken shells.
(Sharp words that should never have been uttered.)
Not even clouds of jellyfish; pale blue bruises,
where fingers should never have touched.

This is all the sea's doing; its deep turquoise
is the best amnesiac potion in the world.
It rubs salt in the wounds - scrubs
away the flakes of the sand's bad memories.

I thirst for this kind of cleansing;
if I cannot atone then I want to forget.
I strip away my clothes - let the sand
and the wind fold them as they will.

Dip a tentative, painted toe.
Let it taste the water. Then walk out
into the waves - they welcome me
like a sister with their skinny, white arms.

It's freezing of course. The sea licks
and sucks at the sins clinging to my skin,
Rips the very nerves from my bones.
I feel a beautiful numbness blossoming within.

And I don't remember a thing.