I have never seen an ocean. I don't know anyone who has seen one. Growing up by the Ganges, I was in awe with the angry river that overflowed every year. I looked at Baccha uncle's marooned steamer and imagined the ghosts that lived within its iron soul.
When I first saw the sea, I also sensed the roundness of the horizon, the fullness of its brims and the infiniteness of the waves. If I were to sing on a dark silent night, l knew that my song would not reach the other shore. The sea dwarfed me into nothingness. It made me feel like a handful of water held up to the sun as an offering and then running down the fingers, back into the sea.
Like an errant stream, I run a crazy winding course downhill. But my dear, I know that when I am done, I will meander my way back to you. I can feel my rush as I fall into you. I know what awaits me, as I dive deep into you.
I too, fill you. I loose myself so that there can be you.