Unquenchable thirst – jeopardizing fulfillment;
Sun kissed during the day, Moon doted by the night.
And the Sea – foaming and frothing over her with undying excitement – trying to woo her away, to some far away land. Somewhere he can have her just for himself.
The Sea tries harder every time. But the Shore, she keeps some of the love and spews up the remnant back to him – as if, with condescending pride.
Sometimes he jinxes the waves with shell-jewelry, sea-weed bouquets and star fish delicacies out of sheer chivalry.
But she got high standards, as always – or so they think.
At times, he gets angry and lashes down on the Shore with waves engulfing entire settlements and wrecking havoc which mere mortals go on to discuss for days to come.
But she remains unmoved by this gesture too, she has to. After all, they turn to her for solace when everything else fails —
She moistens their tears and warms up their hearts when they come to her with crushed dreams;
That comforting, wet, cold sand morphs into the shoulder-that-should-have-been-there when they can no longer handle the pangs of loneliness;
The Sunsets she hosts open up the clogged, dark, secret passages of their twisted, knotted minds, jolts them to reality, and sets them free when the entire World conspires to bond them in meaningless relationships, the painful “what-ifs?”, doused ambitions, and blasphemous expectations;
She is the canvas for the painter’s imagery and the subtle muse for the soul crushing dance of the writer’s ink on a blank paper…
So then, with all these responsibilities on her infinite shoulders, how does she simply walk away with the Sea, into the distant horizon?
But even then, she does. In parts, but yes. After all, deep inside the Sea’s bosom, at the very rock bottom- don’t you find the very same sand projecting a strong foundation for the Sea to live in? The very essence of the Sea contained by infinite fragments of the Shore. Love reciprocated with graceful subtlety. Always. Especially during all those violent storms. Never apart.
And if this isn’t love – in it’s purest, most unadulterated form – I fail to understand what else could be.
Yet you call it unrequited..?