i.

 

 

you were petals i once
submerged — a fistful i let
go of under a foggy sea
when i was succumbing
to myself

 

 

you were the surface tension
screaming my name;
a diaphragm’s lullaby —
old thunder in the rain…

 

 

i’ve been fond of storms
ever since

 

 

ii.

 

 

no one told me
how slow clouds would be —
i would have held my
breath a bit longer…

 

 

charted constellations
a bit better before
i spoke of love in light-years

 

 

and there you were
on a shoreline,
carrying salt in your palms

 

iii

 

 

how many times
will I walk here, —
a wreckage of bramble
in my side?

 

 

“the sea is much too old,”
i heard someone say…

 

 

and the wind was salt
on my brain

 

 

it left a hole;
a stain,
and i felt a burning
behind my soggy
ribcage

 

 

can stars erode
in the tide?
 

 

 

iv.

 

 

night adorns it’s veil —
scallops tug at the lace

 

 

and i toss inky petals
in the sea

 

 

nocturne’s dreamboat
a dead man’s float; —
how i’ve internalized
my hatred for romance

 

 

“the sea is much too old,”
i heard someone say…

 

 

and i realized my
lungs could speak
for days about sunken
ships returning home
 

 

 

v.

 

 

i ignore a
distant moon  — inertia
rocking my cradle

 

 

but she stays there
all the same…

 

 

there’s stardust
on her breath — whiskey
on mine

 

 

“you’ve grown much too old,”
i heard her say…

 

 

so i closed my eyes,
and felt sand between
my toes for the first time

 

 

it will be eons before
i swim here again