you were 22 years in the making,
a sponge without water
since the day they plucked you from the ocean
and left the sea salt to sink into your pores.
I was something too heavy to wade in,
barely able to breathe,
21 years in the making
with floodgates barring my emotions
since the age of four.
At the first sign of droplets,
the salt of you drew me in
and eased the heaviness of my heart.
In your confessions of self-love,
in your tales of embrocation,
I was only ever your liniment;
was a thing to be forgotten from the start.