It was about a day and every day
The silence not reaching his ears
The voice not reaching her tongue,

Not the silence of unspoken, but of paradox
Not the vocals of vowels, but few words of truth.

The Moon was often bright,
His sea always shiny,
The beach at the end muddy,
The clouds near him in a hurry,
As if to not hide, Sea to his Moon.

A cheerful morning with chirping birds
Hosted a Mister and his Missie,
She shimmered as if an heiress of upper lands
He looked content as if the master of time,
She laughed and laughed as to chorus song of birds
He chuckled often, whenever laughter nuzzle.
And the magic of eyes was also present,
She looked at him with her forgotten existence
He looked at her as if his most fragile possession.
She blabbed and blabbed and said nothing,
He spoke on occasion few words of Solace.

On his dimmest days, Sea would often ask as if scared "will you come tomorrow", gazing hopefully
And the Moon would speak as if drunk "for sure". Seeming, weary.

-Ocean