Your words are of the sea,
salted and shimmering
strait-jacketed and dire.
We stand on urgent shores,
lean into the wind.
We hold our voices in our hands,
as substitutes for touching.
The moon is fair tonight, the tide full.
Let us meet then between wakefulness and dreams
to mark the passage of time with appropriate proximity.
We harden our wills,
but not our hearts.
You sound as oceans in my ears:
I hold you close and
we are waves.