 Send out an S.O.S. call. It's a quarter past four in the morning. The storm broke our second anchor line. Four months at sea, for months of calm seas to be pounded. The shallows off the tip of Montauk Point. In calm rows, they travel fast and alone. One hundred foot faces of God's good ocean gone wrong. They call, "Love is a risk to always get hit out of nowhere by some wave and end up on your own." The hole in the hull defied the crew's attempt to bail us out. Flooded the engines and radio. Half-buried bow. Your tongue is a rudder, steers the whole ship, sends your words past your lips, keeps me safe behind your teeth. But the wrong words will strand you. Come off-course while you sleep. Sweep your boat out to sea. You're dashed to bits on the reef. Vessel groans, the ocean pressures its frame. To the port I see the lighthouse through the sleet and the rain. And I wish for one more day to give my love and repay debts. The morning finds our bodies washed up thirty miles west. They say that the captains, they stash with the ship, through still and storm. But this ain't the Dakota and the water's cold. Won't have to fight for long. This is the end. This story's old but it goes on and on until we disappear. This is the calm. Calm me and let me taste the salt you breathe will heal me underneath. I am the one who haunts your dreams of mountains sunk below the sea… after the storm. I spoke the words but never gave a thought to what they all could mean. I know that this is what you want… right here with me. A funeral keeps both of us apart… washed up on the beach. You know that you are not alone. I need you like water in my lungs… this is the end
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