He is a seashell and I am the ocean, but it is not his fault.

He can only hold so many grains of salt or sand, he can only catch so many china       tears before they hit the floor and shatter into a billion disappointed slivers, never to be collected or krazy-glued.

It is not his fault.

In today’s society, it is preferred to be flat.

                     So he is blessed, my skipping stone.

It’s the people like me—the bottomless ravines—

That get lost in ourselves
                         That vacuum up lost puppies and paper cuts and hold them with us                                        so tightly that we’re guaranteed to spill over.

But we don’t. No, not even the slightest.

We just get deeper and deeper to make room for the cold water.
       We build secret gardens to plant poisonous roots and we hide them in our green teas and salads.
               We draw lemniscate maps that loop treasure hunters around our hearts, searching forever.
                          We shun the sturdy carp and send love letters to fickle anglers and glumfish.
                                       We refuse to die in our sleep.

His favorite drink is water and his favorite color is blue.
     My favorite drink is whiskey and my favorite color
Is alabaster when it’s raining,
                                     sea foam green if I’m trying,
                                                                               and violet when I’m in the mood.