In the morning you can listen to the mist. It dies as it burns, little by little, slow by slow. If you sit still and don't move your eyes you can see it fleeing. It runs from the invading sun, hoping, wondering, Thinking maybe today, maybe this day, even if I don't win, one of us will.

Their kiss is soft and cool on my skin, and tastes of a color I've never seen. When I first came out I saw the drops of dew and wondered — is this? Will this be? Then their bodies broke together, melded into ever bigger drops, and I remembered, oh this is the ocean, come to play in the air for a while.

Oh this is the ocean, least you forget who rules this world. Oh this is the ocean, who taught you all life and fed you warmth, and left you craving another day, from the moment you left the ocean of your mother. Till. Till what may be. till what may come.