The Man of the Sea

Isn’t it interesting, the little smuggler at sea, encumbered with fear of getting caught? I’m aware of the danger of that. Yet nothing is equal. I can swim beyond seas of laughter and still be sad, detached from reality and the things that come and go. 

Leave me, I’ll break some ice, we’ll talk in the rain, as the ship advances into the deep ocean clashing on the shore.

I want meaning, but these waves tell me about the transient nature of your sex, the temperament, humored at all times; again, we fight. What times is it? Time to sleep and let the sharks eat that small talk. Light up a cigarette, will you? Smoke with me. 

Let’s forget about the barking dogs across the street, the isles that echo alone, wanting for attention, and the nonsense that goes on and on beyond our grasping.

And then there are the streets of New York, and beaches of Rio de Janeiro, and the alps in Italy. I’ll go anywhere with you, if you tell me what crosses your mind, when you look by the window at sunrise, and at night when hail falls from the sky. Do you think of me, and the times we were together, and that once at a little coffee place, you smiled at a stranger leaving me a cute note?

I’ll go from here to there, swinging my compass. It doesn’t matter, at all, that our course will collide, and the bird will jump from its nest, and lastly you won’t see me, for you’ll have no excuse to love a man of the sea, and transparent waters in which your feet wrinkles and your hair twirls. I’ll leave you alone, to wait for the next shiver.