There is this guy, and this girl, and they’re both out of reach, traversing the edges of my thoughts. One, I sent away on a ship, across the ocean, to a land older than our history. The boy, well, he hides in the North. Shielded in blinding white flurry and diamond stars. His mind is always driving a snow plow and yet there is always more snow to be dealt with. The thoughts between them both fall like a blizzard or blow like a wind storm through my dreams. Waist deep in salty water, I listen to him, digging and digging, too fast to breathe, and I enjoy his stories and plot twists but across the horizon, is the Old Shore. I know she thinks of me and yet we poison the pure memory of the other. Which lurk on the cliffs of our hearts, because that is easier. Yet, cliffs are often weathered, worn down and continuously changed. For the cliffs, this is not a fault in the Earth, but a delicate scar on the true age of the bluffs. Waves will crash against our chests in undeniable whitecaps of emotion, and sea spray will wash away our tears and the wind will sting our cheeks. The same cliffs, will be draped in crystal-like glory, white as the Milky Way embracing our galaxy like a vanished love. A toast, to our derelict love and to the hearts that are unique like snowflakes, and as ever unpredictable as the oceans.