Maybe it's enough to dance by yourself near the sea.
They say when you love someone else,
It's simply reflecting your being,
And here you dance with me.
||In solitude I find you,
And in loneliness seek,
Fewer rainy days where rocks are thrown at the sea.
Yet there are too many stones underneath,
That keep you from me.
Too many cuts on these hands,
To hold yours in the deep.
||Though I try,
To shift while you shift.
Reflect how you reflect,
Miss what you miss,
By the moon's light.

The wound of loneliness.
Not to be talked upon now.
And isn't that exactly it,
A quiet voice distracting from bigger ideas,
And bigger people.

He hasn't felt the warmth of another's breath in too long. Many nights are spent with only his air painting clouds beneath his lips. Bathed in the cold dark, the cabin flinches by every ask of the wind, it's floorboards creek under pressuring steps, and yet his body only shivers from it's isolation. Untentative ripples, pure in their commitment to the fall of sensibility and control; never to have those windows repaned again. See now how the guests of wind tear at the neighboring cloth on his body. Colder colder, and ever more lonesome. Here he sits with no hammer, no nail, lamenting and moaning, expecting a ship in the woods to come and set sail with the morning.

I feel not like I've closed a chapter, but that I've ended the book. One that may have no sequel, one where a new book, entirely separate, is yet to know it's opening moment.