By Swaroop Naik
I walked defeated unto the endless ocean - and I pulled up a chair.
I pulled up a chair - polished but hard - and stared into the relentless tide.
I pulled up a chair, and gazed upon the clouds overhead; they were grim - endless as well.
I pulled up a chair, and looked curiously at the mossy rocks in front of me, eroded by endless lashings.
I pulled up a chair, and observed the crabs and insects, moving about aimlessly, endlessly.
I pulled up that chair, and began my endless wait.
I pulled up that chair, and told myself that to love, meant to wait.
I pulled up that chair, and embraced the endless and cruel burn of hope.
I accepted the silence that would follow.
I pulled up that chair, and for brief moments -
I imagined her eyes looking back at me in the parting clouds overhead.
I felt the harsh rain on my soft skin, reminding me of her words.
I felt the occasional and short burst of sunrays on my face, and remembered the feeling of her hands.
I smelled the salt and sea, and thought of it as her.
I pulled up that chair, and waited - over and over, endlessly and aimlessly.
I pulled up that chair long ago, and let the lashing ocean turn my flesh into bone.
But it didn't matter.
That chair I pulled up was now battered and barely standing, and my decaying bones sat on top of it - still waiting.
I rest on that chair, and my soul still waits, still hopes, still remembers - where my body and mind no longer can.
I sit, a skeleton -
A corpse to the gods, a priest to love and a monument to her.
And yet, I still have to pull up a chair, polished but hard.
Yet, I have pulled up a chair, starting to crack and splinter.
Yet, I pulled up that chair a long time ago, now battered and old.
There is more than meets the eye with the unforgiving ocean.
It punishes me for waiting - it tries to drown my hope.
But my hope remains, cruel but true.
Now - I pull up a chair, soft and comfy, and sit in my quiet room.
I pull up that chair and think that to be my fate.
I pull up that chair, and I sometimes slip - onto the cold floor of doubt.
And lying on the floor, I ask myself:
"Is it worth it? Is this to be my destiny? Am I to turn into bone waiting for love that will never arrive?"
Still on the floor - I hurt, I ache, I long, I miss, I reminisce, I curse and rage; I nearly give up.
But - "No" - I say to myself.
I pull myself back onto the chair.
I refuse to believe it to be the end. I refuse to give up.
I refuse to simply imagine her eyes in the clouds,
I refuse to substitute her hands for empty rays,
I refuse to smell her as nothing but salt and sea,
I refuse to feel her breath as cold, damp wind.
I pull up that chair, and I sit firm - and I vow to fight, to never give up.
I pull up that chair, and I love.
I pull up that chair, and I love endlessly - but not aimlessly.
I refuse to get off my chair, and I love with meaning, with purpose, with unyielding devotion.
I pull up this chair, but I am no longer a slave to it - I sit on it with pride, firm and resilient.
I sit on this chair - and I love you.
I sit on this chair and I do not plan to get off of it.
But I pull up another one beside mine - one meant for you.
I'll keep it warm, I'll keep it polished, free from salt.
For my hope tells me you'll sit on it as well -
Watching the endless ocean with me,
Your hand in mine and your head in the dip of my neck.