It's one of those knights. When I lie amid crests and dips of blankets and save myself from rampancy. I'm surrounded by the kind of silence that permits hurricane heartbeats and boisterous breathing. I swear I can hear my cells dying and dividing; the elder washed out in waves of goodbyes and pledges of improvement. Drips of moonlight veil the tips of my toes. I ask questions of the answers. Perhaps, in this moment, I could tell you exactly what water tastes like, what heaven feels like. But instead, I feel every incongruence in earnest. I have wished for tides; but as they bubble and foam against the pier, I beg that the waves would recess and I could instead examine the ripples of ridden shells along the shore. I miss simplistic aesthetics; the way my fingertips press and free a cool ivory piano key, the way the curves of my cheekbones fit perfectly against your neck, and the way a pitcher of tea filters sunlight. I think I might tilt my head to find the blue-green of your eyes, but your eyes are brown instead. I'm angry in the most calm of ways. I, amidst unrest, moderate the storm. I am knighted. Riddled with complexities and swelling with silence, I long to taste the salt of the sea.