III

Each one takes from me something,
blade, foam, the sheath of saltwater,
the seaweed of my solitary joy.
Each one takes their share,
so that it might become them, or not.
Am I so easily exhausted?
For those who slept in my night of open windows,
a loam grows in the blue pit of their need,
and is a thread of messengers,
and a wind of return.
Those who fled with my blood at dawn,
are never beyond the salt of my caress.

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