You can tell me . . .

upon reminiscing and searching in journals of old, i came upon this poem, written at the shore in August, 2001:

I was just here
thinking of you,
but there is no you in particular.
You are the fighting ocean waves.
You are the dead crab legs.
You are the stench of dead things.
You are the water bottle beside me,
the towel beneath my body.
You are all i smell,
all i hear,
the taste of everything there is
around me now.

I was just here
thinking of you,
and i wanted to tell you;
but how can i tell you
when there is no you in particular?

(Response)

You can tell me
with your infatuated gaze.
You can tell me
with your swinging arms.
You can tell me
with your open ears,
and open eyes.
You can tell me
without telling me
anything at all.