This is

You handed me a cracked beer bottle,
caked in dirt, and ran course fingers
through your hair. Everything about you
has been rough lately, like sandpaper,
like your half-bitten nails and the ridges
that cover this stretch of land before the sea.

It gnaws at our paradise, polluted thoughts
of past loves and artisan's shells that flash
pearly white smiles, dreams where we only
sway in their direction before they scatter again,
tossed by tides of impulse, moon patterns
that sail our undefined life.

"Brush the sand off and
fill it to the brim with seawater."

It's like your always trying to drink brain fluid,
drown yourself in melancholy drama, running
a rowboat back and forth on the horizon -
hoping for tidal waves, for pirate ships and
sea urchins. Hoping that you'll fall off the
edge of the world.

As the lapping waves steal grains of sand and
I loose ground, you stand on the jetty,
foam flickering in your rocky eyes.
You could sift through your problems,
cut castles from your stones.
But you wave to me for a drink of broken glass,
your hand falls and with thunder and
rushing passion, it's all swept underneath
your glassy eyes.

I've fallen in a thousand times.