Grieving goodnights.
Oh shore, take your breast and press close to that of mine,
as we are nothing but seedlings in moist soil,
rooted in pebbles and stones,
under the cold, wild beach of winter day.
Hear the drumming of footsteps and the young fingers,
stripping at the soft sand of our enclosure,
poking in small holes to welcome the sun,
who scurries over and dries our wet faces.
Overhead a stone skips a melody, to which we embrace,
recalling the glorious jig of old day,
thick in summer air and warm bottles of white wine.
My sun, now cool and wise, concludes her cycle,
and hides behind her pale father,
who winks at me, and sheds his eternal light,
over my small, kind breasts.
His clashing waves splash over my feet and kiss my lips,
coating them in finite adoration and long nights,
which I forget when the day welcomes again the sun,
who pours into our small, intimate abyss.
edit: [who breaks, again, into our small, intimate abyss.]
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