The writers sing to the fisherman,

That are drawing in their nets at the end of the day,

Sunset falling into the horizon,

Dancing delicately on top of the waves,

Our feet digging into the burning sand,

The fishes find each other in the darkness of their watery world,

And I find your lips in the fading twilight.

I summon all of my dreams to return,

And the earth to stop in it's motion,

Just long enough for me to enjoy this moment.

Day fades into a tropical night,

And couples are out sweating to the hot salsa music,

As the clubs turn on their lights to the brilliant mambos.

Hipsters cruise the streets,

Taking in the neat of the swing clubs,

As I beckon the bartender for another scotch , sipping on your love,

Taking in the humidity of your eyes,

Watching for the first drops of a summer storm,

Melt with the motor oil in the streets.

We walk hand in hand,

Sweaty palms and racing hearts,

Thinking back in time,

To the places that I used to hide myself,

The darkness of my history,

Meeting head on with the hope of your world,

We create our own thunder,

Heat meeting ice,

Rainstorms igniting lightning storms.

Wandering daydreams that are fading into a type of reality.

So this world is now mine,

No more of the heat of Riverside,

No more of the cold of Big Bear,

The long nights closing the bars in Hermosa,

Or the Tuesday night drunk fests in Redondo,

No more late night dances with the bottle on Saturdays,

Alone chain smoking wondering what door to sneak out of,

Or how much longer the candles will burn.

Come and bury my childhood,

The times spent alone, sobbing in my room with my toys to comfort me,

Listening to my parents fight,

Or helping my drunk dad to sit on the couch.

No more treating busted open head wounds,

Midnight runs to the police station to post bail,

Laughter in the hallway at school,

So it is all erased now,

I begged for it to be gone,

And now so it goes.

It flies out over the ocean,

Sets itself adrift into the breeze,

Maybe I will recover myself now,

Now that I have been baptized by the Atlantic,

And have been touched by Miami's sun.

As the writers sing to the fisherman,

After a day of work taking a moment to sip a beer in the sand,

Moon now bright over me,

Warming me inside,

Forcing out a smile,

Drunk and stupid at last for good reason,

Not just to torture myself,

Or fill some emptiness,

But for a rebirth,

A second chance,

That I was never brave enough,

To give myself.