I sing the Squeaky electric...
There is salt at the bottom of the ocean,
there is salt at the bottom of my Love.
seering salty honesty flowing down her face,
pretense washed away,
doubt is flushed,
her need is musk,
outer pain plunges
into achingly bright waters,
and inner pain washes away.
reeling back years,
the cadence of low words
matches the tide of her needs,
in ever-rising punctuation.
intensity rises, like the swell of the sea,
driving the flow in her eyes.
to the crux, and the rise,
the curve rising high,
slips over and crashes in a
flurry of salt-water redemption,
soaking both ends of her beach.
the humble guide of my mortal hand, dwarfed,
as the wave draws back,
and her beach is pristine again.
flotsom of doubt, jetsom from time,
blown away and reborn as bliss,
in the primordial salt-water
of being adored,
even as much as this.