I See, You Sea

Your sea spray whistles and whispers against
the shell of my ear in the misty mornings and
foggy evenings. With salty tongue, laden with
sea stars and water weed and algae and sand,
with stories of the sea and ocean operas.
I see.

The tide of your hands rolls in and out, up and
down along the length of my legs, my arms.
My body is your beach as you ebb and flow,
ebb and flow, up and down in a continuous
rhythm. Your fingers dig in like the receding
wave that clutches onto the sand, only to
crawl back ashore. My shore.
I see.

Your embrace smothers me with the weight of
a thousand salty seas, enveloping me so tightly
I swear I cannot breathe. The current and undertow
that rushes from your core pulls and drags me
down, down, until the pressure builds in my chest.
Cradling, crushing, soothing, smothering; your
waves bring forward a paradox of sensations.
I see.

Yet, the smooth, crystalline surface hides the
water worlds that lie in folklore and myths
and romance and mystery. I float upon that
sea of glass, unable to pierce the depths and
dreams that lie beneath me. I taste the salt, I
hear the spray, feel the tug beneath me, yet
I cannot reach what lies below.
You sea.