I am thinking of the dead
who are still with us
on their way in the rain
to meet lovers or brothers
and my sadness waves back
like grain in the fields
of lost summers and summers
before that, fireflies in the dark
still young and beautiful
like starry nights, but for them
there is no moon, and for us
the same news we do not receive.

"The sea cannot be his, cannot be his. The sea cannot be his."

He woke up on her side of the bed, an echo pounding down deep in his head. "The sea..."

He reached for the bottles he kept within arm's reach - as he struggled to twist off the first cap, his key keeper knocked on the door before walking in a breakfast tray elegantly arranged. A feast for two.

Although by now the knocks had become mute, this one was as different as yesterday's, carrying the sound of hope. A flash flood of memories filled his head. He thought of what he would say only to drop the bottle of pills, cursing under his breath as the door slowly opened.

His heart bled a little bit. The room darkened - the pound in his head returned bringing him to a rage of black tears. He tasted salt. It burned more than the tip of the tongue, corroding his pride before clinging like oysters to his vocal cords, blocking his airway.

His keeper entered the room in goose feather gloves and goose feather shoes - setting down the tray, she picked up each pill from the floor and bed and pointed to a letter-sized envelope sitting on one corner of the tray. "This one came early this morning."

He picked up the envelope, held it up to the light of the keeper's eyes and then brought it to his nose. Taking in more than a few breaths, he fell asleep.

The sea...

He sat on the rocks of Gibraltar. He crossed the sea with his eyes before resting them in the dim light of the old light house.

Breathing in waves, exhaling seasalt and fear, he opened the envelope and began to read.

Poetry is life in motion , a Niagara Falls of words , a super nova of emotions , cradled on the infinitesimal lines of creation .

And so he went on to take a poll, disguising his dilapidating hope as a courtesy extended to those sitting in front row seats.

All dressed for the occasion, ready to request more than an autograph - he promised a single one to whomever would shed light, offering the scalpel capable of removing (without scar ) the departure of his muse from the pages of his unaccepting heart.

Some stood quiet, others spoke under their breath, awaiting his reaction to synchronized confetti released into the air, settling at his feet and every corner of his despair.

"Perhaps, there is someone else" said a woman to his left.

Yes, there is always someone else, but she was never one to not forgive an insignificant trespass - she understood love in its raw form and would not ask for mine to fit a norm. He replied before moving on to the next confetti flake, kicking it over as if the color was not to his expectation.

Confetti flakes as those of snow
should not be swallowed whole
unless of course you settle in
the shadows and ignore your want for more.

His pen undrawn, intending to retire for the night (short of a promise to come back) he heard a voice:

"The sea cannot be his, a fisherman would know this."

Enraged, he demanded the voice come forward, repeat this abhorring claim and face the wrath of his disbelief.

The room stood silent.

When you were a phosphorus angel
     There was almost light,
And your glow became like the Fallen.
        
When you were holding my hand
       Your prints took over
Mine, like a stolen identity...
Willingly.

       And I was,
Because you were my existence
    In the abyss,
And your luminous spirit a breath
      Underwater.

And you were the storm
     That I left the shelter for,
A little grey can go a long way
      In a rain of sorrowing embers.

I was the reconstruction
     Of your project,
Rebuilding is never easy
But you stayed til I was me again.

       Life is big,
But so little in time,
     I am because you were,
I was because you're gone.