With one hand, she traces sleepy circles and lines in the tide.

The sun willingly yawns it's way into the froth and dies....

with a melting glow of tangerine and crimson.

Someday, maybe, she'll spread herself across the waves

and become a part of the ocean floor.

Today is not that day.

She stands and slowly leaves a bread trail,

in hopes of finding her way home.

Footprints pit the shore and the sand

that the water does not reach.

Left with no windows.

Can't see the stars.

Feeling empty like the floor beneath my feet.

Breathing like an open wound.

Can't keep from living.

Reaching for a moment that refuses to be.

If I could just pick that rose.....

sighing downward,

shutting the gate behind me.

Crawl back into the stump and wait for the storm.

I lack your tolerance of nothing.

Maybe this once I'd be willing to plead guilty for my sin.

Festering conciousness wracks me.