The shoreline

My diary,

Yet another letter, from a lost book.“Her everlasting was never coming
to the sh0res.”

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The shoreline

At nights I come here and I wait
I wait for a
miracle, one that is the
first impossibly one.
I wait for your sails to sail
back to me. I can’t cry like
I did when they told me you
are gone like a stupid story
that I never asked to read or
write or even be a protagonist in.
I come by at 8:16 and I sit on
the edge of the sea and I hold
the ring you gave me; that old
emerald et I wish, so hard that
the lights I see flickering so
far on, was you.
I could cry if I had tried harder,
but I won’t.
Because I am yet to recover
from my delirium, I think you are
going to come
home soon.
So I sit here et I wait,
for I remember when I was
little grand mère told me,
“Silly girl all you have to
do is believe, and you’ll see,
it will happen.”
Well if you are there and you hear me,
i believe, but dearest if you are
with grand mère i best get of
the Sand and make my way
to A1a, as clearly you are forever
gone.
And I shall never recover.
But for now, I wait: I sit still
oblivious as I can, I will wait
another hour ‘till I accept that
I am never going to get over you
and your sails.

i suppose love hath left me winded as a piratewith his sobriety.J’adore you always,
Your simple Jane        A book of lettersQuietly yours: birdy