to: no one, who I longed the most.
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Oh, my little fuming bird, convey my salutation to the edge of an unseen marine, a place where I once walk with him. We were holding hands, playing with the rolling swell of the sea and sand, and pointing our finger at a lighthouse, says that the Southern Cross was ours.
He vanished, along with salt-breeze after I woke up as if a centennial has passed. Dear dainty bird, I will hand you a fish if only you could grant me a wish. Bring me a sea, so that I can see, or humming me the song of waves, just like how he always write me poems.
Salt whisper to me that he was known as a poet of the deep, who carved words above the soft shore with water and wind, intone with petrels. And I was a lame, with rosy-red cheeks, just in each time he speaks.
Together, we thought it would be forever.
But there was a time: when the storm cries out; and the cerulean goes dim. Our sea, our home to flee, tried to cover us with its hand, and made us so far away from the land. It embraced us tightly and so mighty, and I almost lost my breath; so was he.
My bird, you were always sat on the surface, yet never want to try to dive in peace.
Thus, I will tell you the run of seconds when all I see was only his face with closed eyes; and the legit of smiled lips. Just like the sea, he merged himself with mine, and I want us to be the finest wine.
In the cold of blue, I felt a warmth of red. We debark on the ground, not with toe, with no puff of air yet so safe and sound, nothing bleed. Then, it was the last time where our hands met. Still, we were home and refused to get wet.
This time I look for thousand coastlines to roam, from cities to seas. I ask your friend — the black crow — to chirps me a lullaby of the gloom, so brine’s froth could play me the long-lost threnodies. Now, I find out the sea went down, and I was born. So why has he still gone?
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Written by the deepest trough,
with love, Mariana.
