The parchment's message was worn away by salt.

Professions of love are
glimmering shards of ice you can barely see,
heralding icebergs underneath;
seaman's stories told behind gnarled hands,
mixing hyperbole and truth;
confessions
usually made in the dark.

Speaking those words is somehow like
taking the anchor from your stomach,
back-swallowing the chain in great long chunks
of rusty metal
so that it slides away from you—
the stability of the secret
is no longer yours.

It never really matters if the ground you're over
is tearing up the hull of your heart.
You toss your compass over the side
and let yourself be bashed against the rocks,
to be lost.

People come to gawk at shipwrecks, don't they?
Perhaps, with your makeup like ship's paint
running down your cheeks like an oil spill,
and your hair
plastered by the salt of tears to your face,
you will become something to remind them
of the tragedies in life.


Will you tell the tale of your once-great ship,
her beauty turned to mold in the gray-green storm—
or are you going to give up your grip to the threat of a storm
that might shatter you
or might put you back on course?
How hard can it be to navigate
by instincts like stars in the dark?
They've always been there,
after all.

Whisper it to the grains of salt that sting your skin,
to the water that is always shifting colors
just enough to keep it new.
It always knew,
and so did you.
So say it.

I love
have loved
do love
will always
love

you.