Where do the waves go, my love?

Guilt.
The overarching theme of the year,
the sneaking tigress in tall grass,
and I cannot wash the stench of fault from my hands,
doomed to be hunted ceaselessly, forever.

"There is a way to be good again."

Is there?
Nothing seems quite tangible when trapped inside the mind.
I've been marred and mangled by my own inflicted tragedies
because that is the road to atonement,
that is the path the guilty drifter wanders by.

Yours has become a wasted sacrifice,
marked by failed symbiosis and dwindling endurance,
I struggle to keep my head above water,
my limbs lead weights with the strain of treading.

And so I will immerse myself in the liquid chill of your memory,
let the current carry me to the shore.

I want to be dried by a gentle morning heat, soft and enchanting.

Perhaps redemption is in my success,
in my willingness to rise from the depths of your sea.