drove in the rain to a northern port town,
walked on the beach and brought a shell back home.
it sits in my dresser drawer while i'm here and away
and it smells a little less like the ocean each day.

and when the evenings come, a hello is all i want;
i leave my windows open for you.
the humid air thinks it can warm me at night;
i'll take what i can, but the sweat is beneath the skin
and i smell a little less like myself each day.

i can almost be sure that
we've been friends for long enough now,
in that northern port town, i'd watch the ships come and go.
the salt of foreign seas, herbs and spices from arab markets-
my home too rocks between a new and an old.

and in the blend of night without a lighthouse,
why am i not on your neighboring pillow?
why are you and i not standing together
waist-deep in the water and shivering?

i open one last window and want to dive out,
here in the dark, there in washed-out purity,
but it doesn't seem to be like
it is something i would do.

here, My Dear, here it is
Last edited by SubwayToVenus at Jul 19, 2011,