dear ocean, you say you are tossing and turning fitfully, trying
you say you are tossing and turning fitfully, trying to see my
face. but i am sitting still as a stone, convinced that i have
somehow displeased you, and this is my punishment.
what did i do, ocean, to desrve this miserable existence of mine?
the moon cannot give life; she is barren and lifeless and alone
and broken and scarred and she's tearing herself apart
i'm afraid, ocean, that one evening when i start to peer over
the sunset-screen i'll see you holding the sun in your arms,
promising her the shoreline no longer has any importance; the
moon could never be loved; and the starfish you once stole from
the heavens are hers again.
i'm afraid, ocean, that if you spend so much time kissing the
shore you'll not want my presence again.
dearest ocean, i'm afraid. and i detest this fear that
courses through my star-blood.