The Spilling Sea

Forget things like memory, or men, or the space between your fingers where you’ve let both slip through so easily.

It does no good to keep things that bruise you – you’ll be bruised enough, have been bruise enough already. Your body turned blue, like a spilling sea that keeps on running in place, never getting too close for long.

Every space you save will be filled with beauty instead – or kindness – or staying. A man whose hands close the space between your fingers with his own. Who knows how to hold and keep, like you have held and kept for so long.

And love him. God, you’ll love him, but still love yourself more.

Wake up in the morning, a spilling sea he wants to sail. And let your waves come and go, and turn them into dancing instead. Or laughing. Or giving.

Give yourself everything.
You have room enough for it now.

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