Sea

The love of another is as though the sea crashing down upon the farthest rock on the shore. Spraying it occasionally and lightly. Letting it corrode under your salty touch. Mimicking endearments of those intrusted to touch it's core. Letting go gently the jealously of the birds allowed to lap up your touch. Making it too late and too early each time to admire it's own daunting feel of you. Knowing nothing of it's goings or comings seeing only what is to be seen between two short bursts of an everlasting pure joy and acquiesce. And yet coming back again and again to his shores, no matter how briefly, to swim in it's shadow, to bath in it's edges to take glee in it's existence and return to a full embodiment of disappointment in your desolate sea.