I have exhausted myself writing all of these home and seasick poems where I'm the bottomless ship and you are the cruel and vigorous waves. I convince myself that each word that drips is my attempt to come up for air and that maybe if I empty enough out... I can breathe. Even just for a second, even just with a sentence the deep blue surrounding will cease to swallow me whole but it's there. You are there. To ignore is ignorant and to notice is notification and to hold onto it is ****** and gruesome like the sharp double edges of the sword bludgeoned into my spine; the only thing of yours you left inside me that I can call mine. Selfishness is trying not to forsake swimming, to continue letting it rust and rot, but I do not care because it is the only that you have given that I got. So-so, so be it! I'll allow you to fill my lungs, drown them if that means my hunger for you is diminished. Finished, but will enough ever be enough?
No.
No word has ever spoke so well, no, and salt has never tasted more sweet. Amongst all this time I have tried to remain afloat I can finally admit there is nothing for you I'd **** but me. But it will do if that means I have the opportunity to sink into you.