Perhaps it’s better this way. Perhaps it’s much better, this sanctuary of myself, this cocoon of self-imposed darkness, this unsettling quietness, this unsettled heart, this unset moon. Perhaps it’s better in this tiny harbor of loneliness, better than the tempestuous waters of the wide and open ocean, where my ship could tip without a moment’s notice, where my heart could be dashed against the teeth of the icebergs or against the hungry cliffs, where my soul is mocked by the mournful wailing of the seagulls. Perhaps in this little harbor where nothing comes and nothing goes, life is calmer this way, and it really shouldn’t matter to me that the sun is not as bright, because the clouds are not as many. Perhaps it’s better this way because in the ocean there’s this endless litany of finding you and losing you—there’s too much expanse, and you aren’t content to keep with the current.
But it does matter, it does. I miss the blinding sun. I miss the cloaking whispers of the mists. I miss the broiling dark expressions of the clouds. I miss finding you after I’ve lost you. I miss the colors of your eyes reflected in the sea, I miss the sway of the waves as they mirror the tempo of your heartbeat. I miss you. But that isn’t enough to bring me back to sea.