Four and a half hour.

I love the way our talks
are never important and probably
sounded like 'little talks' to anyone else,
but you remembered
those stupid words I managed
to say while trying not to
smile too much at
the sight of your stupid face.

"It's okay. You like darkness, don't you?"
you said one time, with my back
facing the setting sun,
yours against the rose tinted
illuminated sky—my favorite
and the dark waters below.

That's how I mostly remember
you, how I wanted to remember
you; eyes as deep, quiet
(but at the same time, very noisy)
as the ocean, rosy as the color of my
face every time I hear your name.

I never wanted to be yours, as
you are mine, although
I would love to walk next
to you, in the dark, that evening
with the waves crashing next to
us, the stars spreading like that
sort of stubble
scattering on your face

talking about everything
and nothing
leaving everyone else behind
rushing nowhere,
again, and again
and the next day also.