Haven

hundreds of boats drift out to sea
music echoes from a mile away
and the shore reeks of lakewater and gasoline

her hand in mine, her wind-dried hair a beacon
through the horde of faceless beach goers 

the sun reflects a thousand times on the rippling surface
of the cold, murky lake
we wade in, up to our necks 

eventually, the festival ended, 
and all that remains is a faded Polaroid
and the waves, endlessly 
crashing on the shore.