Seventy-nine. Faster, now.

You've finally drawn too many waves
and you weren't paying close enough attention
and they're swallowing you up,
instead of the sparrows and farmhouses,
pounding into your lungs,
you thought the before was uncomfortable?
You thought that a strained hour was bad?
Here, the dreams about whales
that you can no longer tell him,
the painting in your kitchen from the weekend away,
too many songs, too many oceansides,
too many open fields, too many beautiful places.
His hands that never failed to ground you,
all of the times you told him not to stare,
the gingham of his shirt that you first wrote about,
the battles that you should have fought louder,
god, how everything should have been louder.
Everything should have been so much louder.