Sails.

Anchored. It's been-

too long that these rusty chains

have contained me inside this insanity,

running in circles, running through foot-hills,

running after you, who has no inkling

that I am still syncing, trying to, sinking

into the seafoam that laps me up, while you

who still has no clue, after all this time,

drift away further and I am stuck.

Your back is turned on me as my hand reaches

out to you from the ever-deepening,

and my voice is swallowed by the distance between us

into the ocean, into the sea, back into my battered heart

that you have no idea beats-

for you, for two, for just to

be seen, be held, be clean.

Smothered. It's been-

too many times that I've been rescued

and found my body askew from the energy

that I didn't have that I spent on you.

This sad little ship that brands my fate which bobs and weaves

and somehow stays afloat has splintered at the masts and the cross-beams,

and the posts and the even the wheel seems warped and  groans and screams.

And every time I am sufficiently resuscitated, every time I make myself wake,

every time I've gathered enough of my strength, to,

I climb over the rail and search the horizon, for what else but signs of you?

Without fail, without warning, without greetings or salutations, or bids of adieu

or a letter of explanation, there you are, even further away.

Unable to hear a word I say. Is it too late?

How many more scars can I add to my beating heart

and still feed oxygen enough to consistently beat?

How many more lines can I add to this inner wall of tally marks

that indicate the days I've been weak?

I lent you my sails to carry your ship

over still waters with help from the wind.

I lent you my stays to my masts so you'd have something to lash

your canvas to, so you could fly, so you could ride,

so you would be able to say goodbye

to the sink-hole past you'd been trying to leave.

Instead,  the direction that I see you flee

is through the horizon, back to the redundancy

that is your comfort zone, that was the lament of your woes,

that brought you so low, away from the desolate wreckage

with the warped age that has been my voluntary result of your solitary need.

Do you know the amount of sleep I lose because of the fact

that I wake myself up from these heartbreaking dreams?

To open my eyes and see a clear sky,  through the splintered poles

that hold me back- that I would have snapped,

without protest, had you needed those, too.

What have I done, for you?