Your love, like the tide, rushes in, freshens the sand and pulls back.
My heart, like the sand, soaks up your love, and burns in the sun as the tide goes out.
My love stretches way beyond what I see, age, injury, the winter of life.
I would bathe you, feed you, be your eyes, your legs, your arms, your voice
I would love you if you stopped looking like you, hold you when the world turned gray.
My love is forever, and so , sadly, is the tide which is your love. Never still, never consistent, never stable, always moving toward me and away from me.
Always washing over me yet always leaving me to burn.
To remain as the sand is to die. The waves pulling back tear at my soul, the sure knowledge that the tide will once again wash over me no longer consoles me. The fear that the sun will incinerate me or the next wave will drown me becomes more real each day.
I no longer feel joy when the waves wash around me, for they come with the sure knowledge that they will pull back and leave me bare and exposed to the sun, blood dripping from my raw and broken heart and salt stinging my wounds.
Always, your love, like the tide, rushes in, and pulls back.