the sea chases a sailor
from one port to the next,
licking at the well-worn tread
of his cracked leather boots,
soaks the cuffs of tattered breaches,
pulls at thread-bare long-coat sleeves
maybe the ocean reminds him of you,
and how even the deepest bottles
of rum must eventually come to an end,
licking dry lips to find the
last vestiges of salt
or the taste of you
still on his tongue,
wild and carefree, an unbroken thing
like this heart that still beats
within his chest,
undeterred by the passage of time
maybe this is a waiting game
that you both know well,
waiting for your voice to ring out
over the swells to warn this weary sailor
of the rocks just up ahead
(besides, a ship is just a ship
a sailor is just a man wed to the open ocean
a lighthouse is just another lonely port)
a welcome and a warning
that drives the two of you further away,
asking himself if it’s worth it
to crash upon the jagged edges
of your cliffs again
and already knowing the answer,
as he stops and turns
to meet the waves