my thoughts of you are spilling out
like the sea overflows onto the shore
no matter how full or how shallow
it spills--

I spill.

I spill and I can do nothing but spill
my words and the secrets of my feelings.
It's me, my paintbrush, my prose, and you.
my canvas.

I spill subtle mixtures of color all over you in the dark
you are pulling me in your tide and I wonder
what this dance might look like in the light,
how glorious you might look in the light with me

will I still see sixteenth notes dancing on your chest
and will your arms be as strong, as safe
at noon as they are at midnight?
and will there still be salt on my skin?

will I still find myself breathless in the midst of you?
dyspneic but not longing for air
because the storm of you is my calm.
exhausted yet never tired of being submerged in your waters--

for they fill the sea in me
and what is life for a sea but to spill
to tirelessly, recklessly spill
onto its shore.