A grain of sand on the ocean floor
Loved by the ocean’s embrace
I am.

And I cried oceans
And I stood in your emotions
I think halfway through
I lost the notion;

Of what love is
As I felt the breeze
Of cold air and tulips
I paced through your mist.

And you're so empty
Don't love me gently
Leave me behind
Assume I'm blind.

Perfect doesn't exist,
I clenched my fist.
Prayed for God's call,
I know if I fall,
I gave it my all.

They say grief comes in waves
varying in size and intensity;
some start small, moving silently,
might seem harmless but engulf
me within no time and I
was never taught how to swim.

Thrashing and flailing in the water
I find it difficult to breathe.
The seas of sadness pull me far
into their abyss where there is no
light or hope to get out of the misery;
sometimes even that feels enticing and comforting.

On other days these waves come
roaring loud in the ears, threatening
to steal my ground away from me, often
I brave to surf over them with the
help of distractions and they
recede, scheming to gulp me down later.

Wonder how I end up on these shores every time
while on a train or on my bed, in a
classroom or in a conference hall, amongst
the crowded streets and when alone,
memories of yesterday strewn like sea shells
lead me to the waters and I can always hear their elegies.

And when the moon shines its brightest
on them, you get to see the scene of tranquillity
but deep inside my heart there is
a storm brewing slowly that takes
various names every season, maybe there is
one named after you too, who knows.

Do you want to come with me down
to the ocean of tears? We could let
those waves kiss our feet while we watch
the sunset together, I will tell you
all my stories and you could share yours too.
I hope you know how to swim.

I never saw the scarp begin
Nor the haunted planes of gold;
Forlorn, I watched the waves move in—
How their snow-laden peaks enfold!
And without the call of tri-formed reefs—
Echoing mosaic-to-mosaic shore—
I would not have seen the heart therein,
Nor the light henceforth bestowed.

I rarely cry
really, almost never
I can count on one hand
the last five
traumatic
years

it takes significant stimulus
inputs
third party perspectives and

alcohol


but eventually


it happens

like a dream
sweet, sweet relief
waterfalls of relief

it’s just
then

I can’t

stop