Rigged lines pull taunt in a perfunctory exclamation of breath

One received, never to perish

Wind perhaps, or my own

Maybe both

The precipice rising from flat seas overwhelms in steeped desire

Tears puddle in place

Waves embrace

Companionship sought

Muscles pull apart at seams unknown, an awkward pursuit

Wood splinters in the palm

Hands, caked in salt 

Almost, Almost

Here I am, drifting again, as tall pointed firs peek

Driftwood as my table,

The sea my nemesis, my lover