Blue sheets...
that first softness,
lasting scent- clinging
to my skin,
hair and voice.
Texture and sheen,
your lines and folds
swirling into them
like a floating puddle
of tranquil waves. A
small hope of your ocean,
oh, god
"Let me be your ocean".

Like a cocoon of
the seas for dreams
you never remember...
Too carried away by the
current. We are
limbs forming a raft in these
pale sheets of liquid
moving with the tide,
sculpting eddies in
smiles of the fundamental,
the necessary, the absolute
need of something like
salt water tears.

Joy,
bring joy to this home
in these worn sheets,
blue like the clean
ocean's breeze, pure-
untouched as
abysmal depths, undiscovered
and respected. In the
space of its volume, we have faith
there is a point of return.
Here we might one day
find our origins.

He- my greatest source.
A nurtured life. The
gift of some sultry lushness
to this dust, this desert soul.
No longer deserted, such
a nomadic contradiction to be
guided by the stars- ever home
in their certain grace. Ever free
beneath their vastness, and gravity
pulls me around him like an undertow.
Blue sheets, the predictive sound
of him turning over in them,
the initial coolness, the
peace... Ohm... in these sheets
I see outstretched bodies
curling into such a symbol.

Let this be
all encompassing-
and let us
find our compass
in these, the consecrated sheets on which
we write our story
in the boundless language
of a liquid love. He- my natural harbor.
And I pray, I grip
let me be your ocean