Shushed

I'm sorry to tell you that I cannot hold
this secret between my lips, cannot show
you what I am, cannot tell you I will not live,
because I will not see that look in your eyes.

There is little left to say, my dear,
and all the world is shushed.

It will not pass by, there will be marks etched in the sand, 
things to be remembered by a treasured, forgotten photograph.
There will be life in the pink sea shells on the marble bathroom counter,
the ones I used to put by your ear.

There is little left to say, my dear,
and all my world is shushed.

The fact that I surrendered to the waves
shall mean nothing to you, I will make sure your tears
are never leaked from the facet; you will hate me,
but it is so indefinitely better.

There is little left to say, my dear,
and all our world is shushed.