Un-Shore

You

use words

to distance

yourself

from emotion.

Like a child drawn to the ocean,

wonderstruck:

by its depth,

by its magnitude,

by its mystery.

Yet you cannot swim.

So alone

you stand,

tipetoeing ever so close to the edge,

feet dancing beside Adam's ale,

earth wiggling between each toe;

mesmerized by ebb and flow.

Still, stranded at shore

with dreams of floating away

taunting you so

you allow some water

to kiss your skin.

Some day—you say—

you will dive in.

With waves retreating

to the source

you creep closer,

hopelessly drawn in:

by its call,

by its calm,

by its promise.

Is today the day?

Happiness bubbles like foam,

as birds glide across abyss,

akin to arches against sand,

spellbound by sea and

the prospect of finally

knowing the feeling:

of freedom,

of release,

of surrender.

But as waves form— once more—

more insurmountable than before

resisting joy's urge

necessitates a retreat,

so you run,

narrowly escaping,

to the cold comfort of

isolation,

"safe" but on shore.