Surrendering the Sea

Surrender

I’m tired of waking to the sound of this love crashing like waves
on my broken shore. I don’t want to hear your voice anymore. I don’t
want to see your face in the ocean’s foam. I don’t want to dream your smile.

What I want to do is be. Just be. Wake up with
someone next to me who whispers, You’re pretty
when you sleep, kisses me, and makes coffee.

I want to walk the line where the land meets the sea
with someone who matches his steps to me, slows when I’m tired,
runs when I see a shell I admire, picks it up and strings it on a wire.

I want to talk, to lie in the sand studying his hand while
he presses his secrets to my tongue like candy. I want to
watch him open his lips to swallow my secrets whole.

I want someone to open doors for me when I come in
from the sea, salty, sore. Take the dying starfish I found
on the beach, give it mouth to mouth, place it on the mantle in jar.

This is the way it goes, I suppose.
You love and love, but then one day
you give up and take the thing you can get

because love without love back is just another
torn sunset bleeding out into a glassy sea
too cool to care about blood.



I want someone to open doors for me,
to take the gifts I bring in from the sea
gasp and say, For me? Really?

This is the way it goes, I suppose.
You love and love, but then one day
you give up and take the thing you can get

because love without love back is just another
torn sunset bleeding out into a glassy sea
too cool to care about blood.