i am a dot, in your paragraph ...

i am a dot, in your paragraph; no,
in your novel, a lengthy lyric that sings on
without me.  recite again, please, the
chapter of your confusion, of
the watery waves in your drowned hair in
a midnight of new moon.  if only i might
hear the crash and lull of the rhythms
of your voice.  i am
an erratic seagull without your bottled notes, bobbing
in a cadence and blown distant by rising
winds while struggling to fly 
towards your gentle crests and troughs.
     if you would storytell again, i would
wait at bedtime ... but the walls are as
silent as your sunken treasures.
so, i will sing quietly my own story:
        seagulls do not cry, being
made of water.