We were friends years before that night among the boxes, unlabeled for fast stacking in the old pickup. We’re not finished, I said. There’s wine, and I’m not taking it with me. Tipping that last ocean view, you said, I’ll miss you so much, before that half-light kiss pressed a bloom straight through the island. Our hands sands a wave makes without music, without a bed. A motion awaited, undressing like a storm just ahead. So close without my glasses. Can you see? you smiled, one hand touching my face, the other driving the dented guardrail over the bridge.