can't cry over spilled sea

it spills.
not milk. I'm vegan.

I'm talking,
every drop of Russian I ever dared to splash you with,
every paper towel you used to save your sheets.
juice from cutting the tomatoes.
the pulp on the pit of the mango
we took turns nibbling.
the comforter. what color was it?
my side of the bed. the left.
the near-fiery feel of my face just after being rubbed good and well by your stubble.
flint.
the expensive, mediocre blackberries.
The cayenne, the sunflower oil you practically would dive in,
perfect blue days
sweeping into arcs,
sounding like sirens.
you saying I love you first,
not even three weeks in,
us both knowing you weren't kidding.
that night I tapped a hihat on your collarbone
to go with your heart's double bass pedal
and I thought,
I actually explicitly thought,
okay,
this thing can have me,
I am going to give in and love him with every breath I can summon,
with every kiss I can get;
this thing can devour me,
and if it ends,
then.
it ends.
I will let the ground knock me off my feet,
let the ocean's bullies crest right on top of me
and make me tuck and roll
and be at the mercy
of the undertow,
mushed with the sand.

I will come up,
and try to breathe again,
I guess.
but any love on the wind will have to understand
it can never compare
to the spilling and spilling
of sea,
of the strength underneath
that just lays claim to you and
pulls you in.
It will just have to understand.