Sharp Waters.

Sadness has not suited you well,
And I have waited ever near,
I have paced the cobbled streets,
of which we once took to together.
And whilst it was my leaving,
That soured all that it did,
I have sweetened the splendor,
By dipping my feet in sea water. 

I recall the skeletal being,
That was erected beyond dangerous waves,
And the water was so black there,
Beneath the stars it hates.

Perhaps I will always write of the sea,
And I shall become close to it once more,
Come Autumn and it's bitter browning,
Come driving toward the shore. 
 It's likely that the shops have closed,
The rides have long since broken,
The hinge of each old door we took,
Has rusted and disintigrated.

But it seems so nearby, 
When the photographs emerge,
My steps, I still hear, on the wood of the pier,
And your laughter as we ran for the train.

I've got a few ticket stubs,
But even without sun, the letters have faded,
The dates have fallen out of time,
And not a one of them had our names on.

Yet they breathe you still,
They linger at your back,
As you enter the dark of a coffee house,
As you sip at the wine of a sour bunch. 
As the chair barely creaks at your sitting down,
As I linger still, in the lane running along the back of the town.

I've come to find you here, 
So terribly low,
I've fallen beneath the waves some how,
And it's so difficult to shield you from the blows.

We'll never see the sky,
From where we lay,
And we'll never become involved,
In what the world has to say.
I doubt we could speak again,
Despite being side by side,
But if it is all the same to you,
It will be here that I remain, here that I hide - 
In the sands of the sea, in the hilt of the tide.