So many lines and laments
scribed in ink and feeling,
for the girl who is the ocean
but she is a swell and surge
too dauntless and wild,
for a lover whose bones crave the shore.
She craves the squalls and gusts,
and cast iron skies,
a worldly drift to sate the salt in her skin,
the deep pull of currents in her blood.
She is chaotic but not reckless,
she is fickle, but not feckless.
Love her boldly or not at all
her bones belong to the sea
but she will always return to the shore.
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 5:59 PM UTC
So many lines and laments
scribed in ink and feeling,
for the girl who is the ocean
but she is a swell and surge
too dauntless and wild,
for a lover whose bones crave the shore.
She craves the squalls and gusts,
and cast iron skies,
a worldly drift to sate the salt in her skin,
the deep pull of currents in her blood.
She is chaotic but not reckless,
she is fickle, but not feckless.
Love her boldly or not at all
her bones belong to the sea
but she will always return to the shore.
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