At pier's end

This come to my mind abruptly, today, and had to be written.


At pier's end


I can see her, she's on the pier, like many times before tonight, past the boats resting in the marina, past the empty benches, she's at pier's end. She can't or does't want to see me.
She came here after our last quarrel, the last one of a long series. I will not say that she's the one being wrong, not always at least.
She often comes here when she need some quiet time, after our quarrels to calm down or just when she need to think. She often said me she loves to look at the sea, wondering what is or could be hidden under the waves.
She seems tired, panting like after a great struggle, like she carried here more than the nasty words we traded at home.
I should know, i'm just floating toward the seabed, a kitchen knife in my chest, at pier's end.