When they speak of love, I think of you.
They don’t believe me—they think I go to the coast
To meet a person, to find a hand to hold.
They stand with their backs to you,
Clicking pictures with you as a background.
But to me, you are not the background.
You are my muse.
I have loved you since I was a child.
You and I are the same:
Wild, shifting, restless.
We cannot stay still.
They ask, "How can you love something that isn't alive?"
But to me, you are more alive than anything.
You never bore me.
In the rosy morning, you are calm and quiet.
Under the moonlight, you are fierce and wild.
Sometimes you touch me with a soft caress,
Other times you challenge me with your mighty waves.
This push and pull—is what keeps our love fresh.
They think you are just a metaphor in my poems.
How do I explain that I really love you?
Drag me into your depths until I forget the world.
And when I am gone, let my ashes be thrown into your water.
So that I may finally, truly, be free.
