I bring my troubles to the raging sea, sand at my feet, foam
flowing between my toes, storms having passed already even though I can still
feel them deep inside, something I have been forced to swallow along with my
pride.
I come to the sea to cast out all that doubt, to lose these
feelings in the depths I know I cannot reach, her cold heart as closed to me as
a clam shell, the bitter taste of brine on my lips, instead of the much more
welcome taste of her.
How can all this still linger after so long, the churning of
violent waves that repeat again and again in me, like the sharp shards of
broken sea shells stabbing me with each thrust, the in and out of it, the
pressing together of chilled bodies, once warmed by steady friction of love,
now worn down into gravel that rains through my fingers when I reach for it, reach
out for her cold heart, for the closed clam shell, and still I hope I might
find some measure of warmth even in the midst of those terrible waves
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