The Sea

Hours pass alone with the rocks, and I cover their faces with water. So many shades of black slip through my fingers unharmed. When will you notice the sea edge is lit like a ghost, and you hold my fingers too tight to be clean? The barnacles excite me, falling into my touch like white flakes of dust. I try to wash off your skin with my mouth, but you sit still assaulting my hair with your hands like the wind.