Eyes like an ocean

January of 2015

I've never been on the ocean. At least not more than 100 feet. I've always wanted to go there, but my heart sort of keeps me here on land. I want to set sail for new adventure, and maybe even smile while I'm out there.

My chest beats faster than I've really felt it in a while, and I can't tell if it's beating normal, because of how slow it's been, or if my heart is finally getting off his lunch break. 

Like I said, I don't know the sea very well, but I've always wanted to explore it, and your eyes seem to be the next best thing. I don't know you much more than I know the Atlantic, but your emotion is as big as the waves, and as bright as the sun that I forgot sat high in the sky. 

I don't know you very much, and I told myself that I was done listening to my heart, but maybe this one Friday will be different than all the others. One where I can forget the land, and sail away with my eyes closed.

I'm not even really sure how poetic this is, but It's what's on my mind.

I want to sit down on the pier, and stare into the sea just wondering what's beyond, and what lay ahead. Because when I'm talking to you, it's like I can be happy again. 

Hands

I can lie to them. I can lie to myself. but I've never been a good liar.

I can hide from them. I can hide from myself. But my hiding spots keep getting broken. 

My wrists are broken, and I can't hold your hand. Which is almost okay, because your hand is afraid of mine. I'll just keep it to myself, and let it heal with my heart, like a kid who is broken, who plays with other broken kids to hide his broken wrist. 

My hand just wants me to fall in love. It hasn't ran its fingers across someone's face, to tell them they love them. 

It wants to be interlocked with that of hers, to get to know the folds on the skin of another person. To show them the lines on the inside of my hands where my fists have been clenched for far too long. to hope their lines look similar, to know if they're right for me. 

Give me a set of hands that knows where it's been, and wants to change where it's going. A set of hands who knows about my dream, and why I think it was supposed to happen. 

A set of hands that knows how to pray to God, because He knows I can't pray for myself enough with just my bloodied hands. 

Her hands are callused from lifting the weight of the world, her fingers from fretting the strings of her sins, which are a lot like calluses.

The more callused you become, the less pain you feel. Your skin turns to a hard shell that dries and cracks, but is numbed to the pain from pushing yourself too hard in places you maybe shouldn't. 

In a full world.

I'm writing again. And this time around is no different than last time.  I somehow feel alone in a world that has almost 7 billion people. How is that?

I feel like the only thing I ever did was jar up my time and give it to her, but she says otherwise. The only person I communicated with, yet she says she misses having real conversations with me.

I don't talk to anyone else, I don't spend my time with anyone else, yet I still have the audacity to say that everything's going swell in my life.

I truly was swimming in her ocean, and I forgot how horrific the taste of salt water filling my lungs was. In fact, I couldn't even tell what part of my drowning was her saltwater tears or the ocean of her eyes suffocating me as I looked into them.

A part of me is glad to be on the beach again. So secure. As the tiny rocks sink between my toes with a warmth only describable as pleasant, I can't help but think of how good the ocean is from the sideline. Maybe I'll stay here a while.