The Watcher in The Writer

I stood at the shoreline
and watched you dip over the horizon.

Unapologetic.

And then stayed like a mother keeping bedside vigil.
Starched with fear, upholstered upright.

Becoming less like a person,
and more like a lighthouse.
A beacon to guide you home
or silently watch you drown.

The prisoner with outstretched fingers,
a pale light fading in dark waters.

Removed from the trauma finally occurring,
Grief turns everything to stone and salt.