Silent Storms

Age is a blinding net.

If my words are safer

inside my pointed tongue

Even every so often

As poisoned by yours,

then there they shall stay, hibernate.

They will rest as the sunken vessels,

company of the sea floor,

whispering its black secrets.

You'll hear them talking-

in the squalls,

the currents,

in every breaking wave.

I remember you

You stumble to me,

regaining your breath.

I cradle you, your

twisted nets,

shredded sails-

damage of

the audacity of she,

your barefoot ocean-

the pollutant composing you.

I waited, I listened, tangled,

drowning in your currents,

deep crying out to deep.

Mending

and ripping and mending the net,

empathy and sympathy claiming

each respectful stitch.

Until my vulnerable siren, my "I think..."

completes your restoration,

turns the tide, and

activates your savagery.

Unanswered questions meet

your wordy pretension

composed-

this,

this supposed inverness,

this vast sea,

While I am

your silent storm and

your anomaly.

a message in a bottle

for anyone:

S.O.S.

I'm more insecure

 than I've ever understood.