Aside from crashing waves and wind in our hair and in stale clothes,

We are still

She stands at the ever changing borderline of the land and the ocean

Constantly combating

I sit on the piece of driftwood I shared my tale with in cold nights like a cork

The war is over

Months of iron stained in my knuckles; I have yet to redeem myself

Yet she already has.

My astute nature has failed me this far and I want to hold her nectarine face in my hand

Stroke her cheek with a palette knife of brick

This numbing peace

I hate the feeling and

I sometimes ask, where

is the blood? I have found it

It is still rushing