The Tide

December 11, 2008
The foam gently brushes over the tips of my toes
the bubbles slowly caress my skin
left her by the brink of an all time low
nothing I do is right, I can never win

A clean streak runs down my face
My hair is ruffled and my clothes a mess
Ran to the tide after my terrible chase
a pain strikes and an ache in my chest

I refuse to believe he's gone
I refuse to accept that he left
the tide slowly pulls itself in, and I slowly succumb to my fate.

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