Speak to me like you speak,
in tongues, or in plain old English
dusted with a view of sparkly seas
or oceans, as you say, my owl.
My crow, my dove, my dolphin
plunging among the waves that roughen,
among the sands that graze and toughen
your skin and hair but soul untouched. 
Tell me of the call you heard
from a distance, from the depths 
of blue or green or blackened water,
the rover, whose elongated fingers 
soaked and beckoned you to me.
Paint me a salty picture 
of foreign lands and world-old lust,
that'll make me bust and blow confetti
like the specks on sunny seas.
Tell me, love, that space is really water, 
they hover, letting strokes unbounded
of your arms reach out to me:
we're but made of sea, you see.