Second-hand Memories

Lying on the beach, the sun-soaked sand burns my skin.
He is looking out to sea, lost in his memories.
I touch him, but he isn't there. Just a shell, lost in his
second-hand memories.

So we sit, let the sun beat down, let the rains wash over
this already drenched ocean. We aren't here.
He touches me, his fingertips soft and strong against
this frozen shadow.

All those memories, flood upward, crashing on us like
hysterical waves against a bloody shore.
She touches the emptiness between us. It is her fault,
her memory kills us.

So I stand, across the gap. No bridge to get across.
He won't let me in, we are both lost. Closed off.
I can't touch him, He can't touch me. Lost in our conflicting
second-hand memories.