Forgive my pen; it’s a little dusty.
I faced the ocean with you. I had never done that before. You walked out into the waves and made me question why I hadn’t allowed myself to be at ease with the salt water as it swayed, sung, and swept all my fears away. I was once a poet, and the ocean tucked itself into my poems effortlessly each time I tried to make a metaphor for the currents in my chest and the beauty therein. I could never hush the sound of her waves in my mind--crashing always onto the shore where dreams waited to be carried out, and I would never want to silence her.
I faced the ocean with you. I laughed and cried and healed and eventually trusted the earth’s perfect push and pull. I felt safe with you there. The salt on our lips made us thirst for the purest sense of trust and unity. And we were bound by our own hands. We were bound by our own choice--by our own conscious doing--to one another.
I faced the ocean with you. I faced the ocean with you. I’ve never done that before, and now I’m afraid I will never again stand surely in the sea if you slip through my fingers.
