dear ocean,
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
again.
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.
perhaps i shall see you tonight, my ocean.
love,
-moon
I miss you so much! I am tossing and turning because I can not see your glowing face. The clouds in the sky are blocking you from my sight. I love you Moon, I want to embrace you so badly! It hurts being so fare away from the one you love. I try to get up on the shore to get closer to you but only to be thrown back. So I leap into the air off the rocks, but gravity pulls me back. This accursed place will never let me go and I want this pain to end. Please, fall from the sky and into my arms!
Love,
-Ocean
I've been hurt before. How do you think I became lifeless? I crave your touch, it's true, but I, too, am held back. Do you not see these light cone ropes that chafe at my already raw skin? I can fight, yes, but to what end? Do I fall only to be hurt? Do I listen to the Sun Gods when they warn me of your past deception?
Or do I listen to you, my dearest ocean? My heart is confused, as is my head. The only thing that is constant is this: You have hurt me once; and it cannot be repaired. But can we start over?
I desire you. I desire your love, your touch, your soft breath on my skin. But for now I must hang here in Limbo in a noose not of my design, but of my deserving.
Love,
-moon