On the Shoreline
I had a lover who knew precisely how to make everyone but himself happy. This would always be, a problem for him.
Not a part of him wasn't giving, open, beautiful, trusting. But these trademarks of innocence would not save him from erosion. Like a shoreline, being consumed by mud-brown waves, he needed to recede. His shy, retiring nature was in of itself well-known.
The beach was his home; the very o quintessence f an ocean child he was. His entire life was the lapping of blue on blue, of star bodies, lost continents and places to explore.
Ahh, but I loved my little soldier of the soul; his tender inclination, his gentle ways and his reveries of brilliance. When Tennyson wrote about the moaning of the bar, the passing of the night into day, he meant him. It's now night, will always be night. I know this now as I've ever known it.
And yet I can't complain, for having known him, for having had the enrichment of a soul that wished to mingle with mine.
I go down to the shore every morning since he was taken from me and watch the ocean swallow sand and think of my sailor. I know that he won't be coming, but I wait.
To you, Stevie. For the tears and the pain. I am your water and you are my land.