I could tell you his eyes run deeper than oceans,
but deep waters like those turn green,
with more algae and moss than room to breathe.
let’s call them a seashore,
which is to say,
if you stare right into them
under direct sunlight for long enough,
you will eventually be teleported to a beach.
You can almost feel the soft sand crumbling beneath your feet,
you are leaving footprints in the vortex of a daydream,
who said vacations were destinations anyway?
I wish I could rewrite the stories that ride along with the tides,
but they always get washed away too soon for me to finish,
leaving me gasping for air,
with fistfuls of prologues like seashells that got left behind,
but maybe, that was the point all along,
to leave me with a handful of beginnings
I could cement together like building blocks,
am I not the storyteller after all?
On some days, the tides are stronger than usual,
the winds blow harder
carrying more warning signals than welcome signs.
There is too much sand in the air for casual conversation,
too much wrath in the water to keep paper boat messengers afloat.
The anatomy of a storm is simple.
The ocean too needs room to stretch its legs after years of toil and tumble,
to wrap its arms around every creature it has only known through footsteps.
How dare you
deny the ocean its one shot at love
the moment it chooses to step across the line,
chooses to not let you be yet another series of unmarked graves on an already barren landscape.
Can you imagine what it feels like?
To be a part of memories you were not invited for,
ones you were asked to attend standing three feet away,
as though you were only as good as the backdrop you blended into.
But it is never an ocean we are talking about, is it?
Never a seashore,
Always a boy with eyes that glisten like freshwater lakes under the sunlight,
like waterfalls waiting to find their way out to the sun,
after years of wading through narrow rivers.
So I ask you again, how dare you
walk away from a storm?
There is no wrath without a longing for love,
or a need for relief.
So the next time you see a storm approaching
that does not know how to let you embrace it,
take one step forward,
You have grown too used to these eyes on sunny mornings
and perfect beach weather, I know,
but you owe it to every one-sided daydream
to put up a fight.
Let your unwashed footprints stand proof
of all we can build with the rubble we are given.
His eyes will always tell stories of a war he did not fight alone,
all the destruction he could have caused,
and that is exactly when
you will find your reflection lurking behind the sunlight,
a shadow on perfectly calm water,
because where else would a storyteller be,
but in midst of things,
moulding sandcastle daydreams into metaphoric beginnings.