A waltz With hands that reach Towards the hole Torn from the Earth. I breathe my dust over a memory That stays to write fewest litanies To me, the scribe to my own psalm. She waits there With an ocean to call a storm. She resides there Across my desperate mile, Where stares are sinking by the ships that sail Around beauty's fairest while. She calls With lips that can barely skip Words when they are so clear To hear. I draw from my heart A note that was scrawled, in haste To taste the lips of a raw moment. What can I reach for Across the sea that wakes me? She is the bliss I can faintly kiss, Before one dies away From my sorry arms.