the sea chases a sailor from one port to the next, licking at the well-worn tread of his cracked leather boots, soaks the cuffs of tattered breaches, pulls at thread-bare long-coat sleeves
maybe the ocean reminds him of you, and how even the deepest bottles of *** must eventually come to an end, licking dry lips to find the last vestiges of salt
or the taste of you still on his tongue, wild and carefree, an unbroken thing
like this heart that still beats within his chest, undeterred by the passage of time
maybe this is a waiting game that you both know well, waiting for your voice to ring out over the swells to warn this weary sailor of the rocks just up ahead
(besides, a ship is just a ship a sailor is just a man wed to the open ocean a lighthouse is just another lonely port)
a welcome and a warning that drives the two of you further away, asking himself if itβs worth it to crash upon the jagged edges of your cliffs again
and already knowing the answer, as he stops and turns to meet the waves