Tidal

I don’t know you.

I’d never seen you before

Until a week ago,

When you decided

To start complimenting more people

Because of something you read on the internet.

Except you did it wrong,

Because it kind of sounded

Like a catcall.

Then you shook my hand,

Asked for my name,

Told me yours,

And walked away.

It was awkward and unexpected

And made me uncomfortable.

My least favorite kind of interaction.

And for the next several days

At around the same time

I found myself looking around

At all the heads bobbing

Through the high school hallways

For a very specific,

But apparently very popular shade

Of bleached blonde.

You washed up, unremarkably,

Just like everything else does,

Onto my overgrown, littered private beach

That is in desperate need of maintenance.

Its fences are falling down

So badly, and in so many places,

That I can’t remember where the property line is,

And trespassers don’t get prosecuted anymore

Because the sign fell down ages ago

And I honestly don’t blame them

For not realizing that somebody is responsible

For this place.

So how did you

Of all people,

Prosaic and illustrous,

Manage to glint through the sheets of rain

And spark my curiosity enough

To make me want to go outside

And investigate you

In the middle of a tropical storm?