I'm smaller here.

The ocean often forgets about me,
tosses a teasing crest at blond boys.
Bodies are reluctantly shaken from the cooling sand--
I could know each face intimately.

Walls forget the color of your hair, now.
There's a shade of brown I've left behind.
Another man sleeps in my new bed;
he smells like a blind girl's yellow.

I would ask you questions,
but I recognize the answer from here.
When I remembered the color of the ocean,
all of me, except for you, crossed this country.

If you had known the name of the pale flower
you gave me that night (I remember thinking),
the perfect circle would have gone unbroken--
this ocean would be you.