You are no ocean.

No driftwood tentacles
to tantalize my jellyfish brains.
I have tossed away
the rest of my wishing stars.

You are a sanitarium door;
containing unsanitary desires
that should be locked away.
Or a rotting sarcophagus -
weathered by Time -
forgetting the loving touch of
your hands
or mine.

You're an empty bottle
I tossed out to sea -
scrawled with confessions, dreams,
passions – I screamed,

"You, sir,
are no ocean.

Not to me.
Not anymore."