Needles

I walk back from the Marina. Sun and dust and the air is pale. I walk near those streets I once knew, pick up bits of ghosts, lost transmissions - rather - stuck transmissions; Joe on a bench here writing a poem, Craig on a skateboard that was falling apart, walking on the pebbles of the beach, alone in the pitch black evenings of a December when I was 29.
Time passes, and it passes by us with a touch like knives. Delicate brush of impossibly hard needles. Events are scars. Form their own landscape.
The sea is endless.
I pass by the Pier, the buildings down the seafront.
It doesn't feel like I live here any more.