An expanse of painted glass,
The color cerulean, like the sky,
Gently billowing beneath the heavens:
Without end. Why?
Beneath the waves into the dark,
The place where I cannot tread,
Memoirs of history sleep in silence
Kissed by fishes.
I dig my toes into the sand,
Her welcome mat of many ages;
She bathes my feet in salty hair
And then recedes.
Many nights I still come here
If not by foot, then by will or dream.
She becomes dark on top at night
With her own moon.
She speaks to me in whispers
And she complains to me in roars;
She tells me of the things she's done,
And I listen.
She reminds me of that one time
When she wrapped him in her embrace
To the depths, then to ascend cold;
My heart, broken.
She tells me now I'm not kind
And I'm reluctant to see her.
She feels that I have grown distant,
And I'm sorry.
As she ripples in the night breeze
I prepare to wish her farewell:
"Though you took my friend from me,
I still love you."
