At dusk we walked the dogs in the wet grass,
our faces caramelized by ocean air.
Cerulean escaped quickly,
a cunning fog wafted in with the darkness.
Ferris wheel lights glowed smoky-romantic on the pier.
"It doesn't get any better than this," you said.
I reached for your hand
as we turned our heads upward.
An open third floor window outlined
a protagonist consoling a woebegone saxophone.
Entranced we sat in the melody of outstretched nightlight,
listening.
Each of us a passing footnote in the story.
Its memory worn around our necks
like a polished rough ruby amulet.