i.
you were petals i once
submerged —a fistful i let
go of under a foggy sea
when i was succumbing
to myself
you were the surface tension
screaming my name;
a diaphragm’s lullaby —
old thunder in the rain…
i’ve been fond of storms
ever since
ii.
no one told me
how slow clouds would be —
i would have held my
breath a bit longer…
charted constellations
a bit better before
i spoke of love in light-years
and there you were
on a shoreline,
carrying salt in your palms
iii
how many times
will I walk here, —
a wreckage of bramble
in my side?
“the sea is much too old,”
i heard someone say…
and the wind was salt
on my brain
it left a hole;
a stain,
and i felt a burning
behind my soggy
ribcage
can stars erode
in the tide?
iv.
night adorns it’s veil —
scallops tug at the lace
and i toss inky petals
in the sea
nocturne’s dreamboat
a dead man’s float; —
how i’ve internalized
my hatred for romance
“the sea is much too old,”
i heard someone say…
and i realized my
lungs could speak
for days about sunken
ships returning home
v.
i ignore a
distant moon — inertia
rocking my cradle
but she stays there
all the same…
there’s stardust
on her breath — whiskey
on mine
“you’ve grown much too old,”
i heard her say…
so i closed my eyes,
and felt sand between
my toes for the first time
it will be eons before
i swim here again
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