If these were my final moments; the final ink to hit page,
the last breath fading fast from lungs– my eyes would make a dash,
and pull a picture from mind, of you: my angel to guide me up.
I can no longer hide the thoughts and let them count by with the days,
like those thrown an’ spent waiting at your bay, for the fortune;
nay privilege, of being discovered by your heart and hands.
I have skipped far too many stones, for the off chance of your notice,
this dolt hoped like the doped fool with each bounce rippled upon waves,
that you would pull to his shore and enter his cave
to see that you are his treasure; and he does not want to bore with a bury,
but to help your beauty soar with the cherishing polish,
that aching heart gives for you.
If this was my final plea, billboard for notice: I would use it to proclaim to you
I am the man that skipped stones by your bay and I love you.