I remember the sound of the sea.
The air stirs, moves; the sea blows it.
You & I were taught how things grow
from the earth. But the sea—what of it?
We were told that water is just
a differently abled outer-space. As if
it could be heartless, the cooling blanket
wrapped around a flaming body.
Quietly, I whispered what I thought
water to be. Go on, taste the sea.
Tell me it is not wave after wave of
sadness. Tell me that sadness & love
do not mean the same thing. All
the sea wants is to love more, so she pools
& froths & storms, knowing she will never
get close enough to the earth to become it.
Why else would we gaze upon her with awe,
but in separation? Air is all the truth we need.
Water is too tangible, too dangerous.
You & I were taught how things die
in the sea, but remember the sound of her?
I think she is merely surviving.