memory clings to my porous depths,
moments now all but nonexistent, in a
shatter-scar painted fog,
rolling in further,
each hour before dawn.

what I have not yet even begun
has already transpired,
and dug ditches into
point-blanched seconds,
as I sit,
on the windowsill,
looking out over the ocean.

its countless cerulean rivulets,
tugging, at the
worn-down and torn-apart fabric,
binding the center of my chest,
each little shard
another droplet of
growing, smiling sharpness.
it whispers:

"you're in love
with the sea,
so
why don't
you just
god-
**** drown?"

so I set aside
all my nails,
and walk down,
to the shoreline;
but

I'm just
sad words,
and
no action;

so I slip back, to square one,
just a little further down,

and

rinse,
and repeat.