Once, you told me to write a poem about your love.
The crashing and demolishing and devouring
blue lips.
I tried, I promise.
But how do I bury what I did underneath water?
It floats to the top. Always.
Once, you told me to let my soul speak,
but it kept its ignorant mouth shut.
Now it's wailing and pining and crying
out for you,
but it stayed quiet much too long.
Once, you told me if I drifted away,
you would stay with me, laying on the grass,
the moon glowing and gleaming and smiling.
But you left me on the cold
September grass,
although the bitter air feels more like
November or
February.
Once, I was scared of falling asleep-
of Darth Maul and Aardvarks and little boys.
So you ran past trip wires and over laser beams to be with me-
my dream catcher-
but the back door.
You forgot the back door.
A few months later it happened again,
but this time your parents didn't call.
They think you're on a life preserver
this time.
Little do they know how blind they are.
That life saver is headed straight
to jagged rocks.
I a watching.
Still. Always.
A tiny drop in the dashing blue and
foaming white.
A tear drop.
Once, I told you my heart is an ocean of secrets,
and a few months later you found out exactly how.
And you cried thus filling our ocean with more salty drops.
Later, I filled it with my own.
And somewhere, somewhere in that vast ocean, spread out over miles and miles, both our teardrops are running around.
Once, you told me to write about salt water.
The waves and the tide and
capsizing boats.
So, now, when I think of the ocean,
deep blue, caverns, untold mysteries,
I think of you.
Well, after one and a half years, I finally wrote it.
Too bad you're a million miles away.