I know I have to do this on my own.
I know there can’t be any shadows to speak up for me,
but I’m so sick of the sound of my own voice,
so won’t you stay, and say something?
Your softness has such strength,
gentle, tender ocean,
inevitably in and out at the will of the tide.
Is it too much to ask,
to grasp to your fading fingertips and say
I think so, but I ask anyway.