Maybe I should have come alone.

Maybe if the clouds didn't resemble
tombstones and I had brought something
more upbeat to read
the ocean wouldn't seem so final
an ongoing thought carried to shore
then taken away,
washing the same green sock
over and over again.

Maybe if I was taking medication
or at least St. John's Wort,
maybe if I had a chocolate bar
to eat between breakdowns
the seagull's cry would be more of a sigh
and the waves wouldn't seem so blue.

Maybe a lot of things. Maybe
if I could slip into Sylvia's mind,
sort out the spices in her spice rack,
alphabetize them and dust them off.

Maybe then I'd understand how
it's the little things that pull you under.