I.
There are days that the silence is loud,
that I see vague faces and mouths move,
but the gulf is too wide
for the words to cross it,
and whatever is human
is continents away,
and I dog-paddle
in an open sea of disconnection
and meaninglessness.

I’ve heard of love
as a wonderful playground,
a monumental land mass,
a rising cone of fire
that warms the sea,
but all I hear
is the lapping of waves.
I have seen in the past
the blurry twist of lips
into a smile,
but I do not see the eyes,
and understand the gesture.

The sea swells and shifts
and rises and falls
and pushes me back and forth,
and I tread water,
trying to keep my head up,
anxious of the white caps,
hoping to see land
some day,
some year,
once.
Before this body sinks.

II.
The water is knee deep
if you would put your feet down,
and the land is at your outstretched hand
if you would look into their eyes.
The white caps
are nothing more than
your tears of self-pity.