• I stare out upon the open sea.
    The refractions of the cumbersome orb do naught to
    do injustice to my eyes.

    The sea has its own beautiful monologue.
    Echoing, echoing, through the floor and into me.
    The soul of such a grievous mass comes to bear in a soliloquy.
    Of tossed emotions, broken bottles.

    How many bottles held a note?
    From one to another, for whatever intimate reason.
    "I love you," "I don't," it doesn't matter.
    It's gone anyway, now, worn out by the tumultuous season.
    Its blessed note has gone a-tatter.

    It's as if the sea is as lonely as I,
    bringing its pain to bear against distant lovers.
    So that the sea could breath a shuddering sigh.
    Knowing that its pain is felt by another.

    Perhaps the sea just must wreck ships.
    Perhaps the ocean can't come to grips.
    Perhaps the ocean is a sea,
    composed of tears, just like me.