Monday, November 7, 2011

Dearest Wave Upon the Shore

Missing you all the more now since I know it'll be a while before I see you again. 
Of course, you wouldn't know how much. Or at all.
There is a strange pleasure in not telling. In staying away.
In not confessing what I can barely contain within me.
My love for you is built on so many improbabilities, things unsaid,
Thoughts never revealed, I love you because I can.
Not because you might. Or might not.
I sing you songs you'll never hear and write you poems you'll never read.
The songs float around and lose themselves in the wind.
The poems are scattered on the water and they gradually dissolve into oblivion.
Do fish appreciate rhythm? Or cadence?
What worries me is the forgetting....
The gentle wiping out of all memories dear...
I may forget the colour of your eyes, but not their kindness
Your words but never the tone...
I'll remember the gentle cowlick and the down on your hands
And that joke you made when I was bleak... or even what you never said
But I thought I heard. I wished I had heard. 
And remembered.
Dearest Wave Upon the Shore,
I guess it's time for you to return to the ocean
And time for me to face realities and life.


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