by bru
Her father was a stack of books in a library.
Rigid and orderly,
He yearned for the smell of a hard working crew,
The taste of relentless waters.
As the ocean reached for the sun
He stared hard into the horizon.
Cracked hands clenched on the side of his ship.
Legs like buildings on the deck.
A life of water.
The ocean, his unrequited love.
The shore, an infection of unfamiliarity.
Desperation begged from a town off the coast of New England.
Without love returned from waters his blood spilled into,
He ached for what he gave selflessly to the sea.
At ports he gathered love from those needing it the most.
Tears dropped on blouse buttons and cheeks blossomed with anger
as love on land proved too real.
The sea does not talk back or take your heart without asking.
But the sea does not have a breast to hold or lips to brush against yours.
She heard he died at sea like he always knew he would.
An aged captain with water thundering through his veins.
Years of salty skies and gray air.
Her father was a sailor with the heart of an ocean.
