i hold in my hands all of the sea’s sadness,
press it against my chest;
drench my shirt and then my being
until i resemble its loneliness —
the very depth of it.

soon, the ocean floor will claim
my driftwood bones.



but there are no sunbursts or naive greek boys.
just surreal june midnights.
just water everywere —
nowhere.

i hold in my hands all of the sea
but there are no sunsets waiting
to sink down my spine —
just the cruel way that my skin goes on and on —
its flat, certain vastness
and this ironic drowning.

i hold in my hands all of the sea’s sadness —
press it against my chest;
drench my shirt and then my being
until its loneliness fills my lungs.

​

​i come up for air but it’s just endless skin —
i close my eyes and dive again.