The mountains are never lonely as they are kissed by lilac clouds. Painted by a setting sun, spectators of beauty, a part of beauty themselves. Free of responsibility, or any need to call on why the sun rises and then falls; the mountains live a perfect life a life of no troubles.
There are emotions that have no words and instead become motions and drunken slurs. We are fooled into believing that every tragic feeling is a wound to be healed or a cry to be heard.
I am adrift upon a sea that always returns to kiss the broken shore. No matter how hard the two collide she always returns for more. I am stranded upon this constant tide that perpetuates a heartache, for no matter how hard I try I cannot become the foam of waves I cannot return time and time again to kiss that perfect stony face.
The sea is in love with the shore but must always pull away. Only to return once more with the thundering embrace of a thousand soft lipped waves.
I think I left this in your shirt pocket and I think you've read it. It is about you. Of course this is about you.
There is a terrible quality to all skin, water, and fur that desires the brush of a finger. And upon this touch often follows a pur, a recoil, a splash, or a hum as the world recognises that two things have, if only for a moment, become one.