Photo by: Ray Collins
The thing about waves is, they recede. Pull back. Falling into themselves before they get a chance to regroup. Resurface. Call themselves back into existence. We get so caught up with the crash. The massive white-capped mountains that we forget, waves come in all forms. They can lap at you, or tug you under.
Life is an ocean. Always churning and receding, lapping and crumbling. How many mountains have tumbled into it? How many homes have been trampled by it? Brilliant. Wondrous. Awful.
I want to hold you in my arms at night and talk about your life. Find out all of the things you tuck inside your chest. I want to smooth your hair while your voice vibrates in my breast.
Everything I say to you is cut down. Edited.
Made into easy to digest, less honest pieces. Made into less honest, easier to digest pieces.