Walking on the beach
your toes shifting in sand
a polished skipping stone
cupped in your hand
but you will pick up a shell instead
and press it to your ear
(and I don’t need to tell you
what you’re going to hear)
it’s the sound you have missed
for years and sometimes more
of my tumultuous waves breaking
upon your rocky shore;
though for now we may pretend
that our feelings don’t preside
you will always be my moon
and I will always be your tide.

BB

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