This is the name you were born with,
only now, it crumbles and falls into
the water breaching at its heels.
Hello - you are the moans of a cruel
sea, and the sand you crave fills
the half-something glass in your ebb.
When did vacations start to consume
small victories? Doesn't it matter
when the shore pushes you away?
Oceans are bound by name alone, and
the ocean is no place to forget just how
hard it is to wash the oil from your brow.
I want to fill this cup with sand and
water to take home, so I can settle
down and find something in tomorrow.
Forlorn is the word which comes to mind,
but sight remembers to wake me from such
thoughts - the sea rolls in, the sea rolls out.