Each night he stands at an otherwise deserted shore and shouts her name at an ireful sea…
He stands at the rocky coastline, his tall frame stooped and shaking, as the frigid tides break before his weary feet.
And he laments for the woman who haunts him.
The grief in his heart is a fury that its feeble vessel cannot contain. The guttural pain erupts from the pit of him, battling the salty, bitter winds.
With every heave of his broad chest, the waves, they too, heave. The waves, they swell and snarl with violence-
Each night he stands at the edge of his country, the edge of his sanity and he curses the woman until his throat begins to bleed-
until the sea threatens to rise up and consume him.
Then the exhaustion overtakes him and he collapses onto the cold, wet sand, gnashing his teeth and writhing.
He wishes for the chill of Death.
But the whitecaps do subside. And his heart, no longer a murderous pounding fist, ceases its abuse.
With dead, unblinking eyes, he looks up to the heavens-
heavens that he denies exist.
Hanging in the black, his moon glares brightly upon him.
“I hate you,” says the moon with her voice.
“And I, you,” answers the man as his moon retreats behind the passing shrouds of grey.