My shadowed face stays displaced against your shallow wave; my rip-sign; hallowed grave, as a riptide rips inside; sending me under, asunder aside.
Land no more. I find myself as a pulse declining, sole-surviving, shipwrecked skip on a deck, left for dead. Man overboard.
I’m steeped to the seams as the Cilician Sea seeps in me til I can’t breathe; I’m breathless from diving head first, defenceless, without a breath first.
Your liquid salt is liquored soap; an assault to my sight. I see my broken, corroded boat float by, all while your light stays sober from my eyes.
I’m a sealed boy in a barrel acting like a steel buoy in a channel. I can’t seem to navigate my own wrongs, let alone those from other’s lost in the connected oceans.
So… to hell if it’s selfish; before you swell me through the Celtic Sea, tell me you felt it… at least something.
You’re a submerged siren singing to me so sweetly it hurts, yet too briefly to be heard. You’re a hidden, glimmering secret — swimming so peacefully — while I’m buried at the Caribbean seabed.
Your waves are calm and clear, now I’ve stopped struggling or coming up for air. I can’t take it there — I might just stay down here — listening for your singing until your face appears.

 
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