To the sailor,
You’ve been lost.
You’ve been lost so much, in so many worlds and so many distorted realities of preciousness, that when you bow your head towards the mast, you shoot the heavens above you a milky smile glittering from the wars of resuscitation infusing inside you.
I know, when I behold those eyes, that yours eyes are a gamble that the gods trade for, in the hallows of your nightmares, but deep down inside the fickle depth of your sea green, instigating eyes, I know you measure your life with the nautical miles it has rendered you apart in.
You travel. For life. But the brooding expression on your face masks several revelations of your heart, oh man, of how you your teeth bicker apart when icy winds strangle the soft lines on your back.
I know, sailor, I know, that you search on. You search in the vessels of beauty basking under the beauty of sun, waiting to be summoned. I know, you search on, in the dearth of the passages of your throat, which has been parched dry with beauty for so long.
I understand and you, that ask you look at the sky, waiting to surrender yourself between the infinite masses of space where stars hang like chandeliers bathing you in a light so unearthly, that you’re scared. Of being alone. Of being unwanted. Of being abandoned.
And so you hide on. You hide on from the burdens that wrestle with your wounds, and from the virile feelings that make you ricochet between your sterile tongue and sore lips.