Shattered [work in progress]

This is a work in progress I am hoping to include in the “dark” section of my next book. It was one of the early pieces I wrote about acceptance of loss and the inevitability of departure, and I’ve been sitting on it for some time before attempting to make revisions. I’m happy with most of the imagery and emotion in it. I’m wondering whether the rhythm needs to be more defined. Does it seem too long, with too much repetition in certain lines? And does the end of each section give a clear picture, or do the final lines need to be strengthened? Let me know what you think.

It has happened.
The crashing waves
no longer drown out my screams.
The sea is calm
and I am silent
as you stand facing me
unblinking, unaffected
perhaps even uncaring.
(Yes, that is how it seems.)
We still share the same space.
You could still reach for my fingers
and clasp my hand.
But knowing you will not do so
has drawn a thin line in the sand
perpendicular to our previous path
along the foam’s edge.
It’s no deeper than a furrow,
with soft sides that roll inward
curved
so that we could slide down them,
still meet in the center,
falling into each other like children
tumbling into a heap after a pillow fight.
But you stand straight
move your foot inches forward
and smudge out the line with your toe,
asking me to step back,
give ground,
always asking for more.

But now I know
am now sure
of only one thing:
I have already given too much.
And you force me to grasp
all I have left
firmly,
to hold that smooth, narrow,
curved piece of driftwood,
hold on to it tightly
as I reach down
and draw that line
deeper into the sand:
through the dry layer
with its soft sides
into the wet hardpan—
colder, darker—
carving defined walls
as you keep pressing for more.
I am protecting all I have left
Separating it from you as I must.
How deep will you force me to go?
How much of a chasm must I make
for you to realize
you have left me no choice?
I must pivot and walk away
whether you stand and watch me go
or turn and do the same.
Because you will never again
reach for my hand,
never stand straight for me
so that I may lean on you
as we set off together
leaving only parallel tracks in the sand.

—Julie Laing