Side Effects of Sea-Bite

We're sitting down by the dock
watching the sea trying to settle down
having our silent coffees, some of us
even exhaling smoke into
the haggard waves. The sea bites,
but can only tickle our feet feebly.
Someone sips their coffee and says something,
but it's not good enough to murder silence
so we say nothing,
but some asshole just can't keep quiet -- just as
there's that asshole that just can't keep quiet
who generally is me but this time isn't --
and they go on about how the sea
used to be more calm in the days
like their grampas on heated June noons
sleeping in a state of consciousness.
The sea takes another bite. Someone
swears, which I don't know if it's a
profanity that would hopefully soothe the sea or a
lamentation for the massacre of silence at
such a young age, when silence itself
hasn't yet soothed our minds.
                  My mind.
It is too busy of a mind to care for sea-bites
or coffee or smoke or whatever the assholes around
have to say about velvet jackets or life. I think
of your beauty, which hit its peak, yet
never seems to deteriorate. It is the most
excellent kind of beauty, surviving through
ugly times and silence and bullshit and such;
and once some blissful man said that
it will never pass into nothingness, and your
beauty might never pass into nothingness
but it is no better use than nothingness
when it does not reach out to me; I am just
reminded of it now, not touched and troubled,
and the beauty is as good as the memory,
no better. I find myself thinking
of gods and of your beauty
and of how I had it
for a moment
eternally
and here I am still going on and on and on about it
not caring for sea-bites and assholes, and as
days by the sea seem to permeate into the silence
I'll find myself like this almost all the time;
except when I see her,
who seems to have stolen
your beauty somehow,
and your beauty -- a monster reborn
in the glitter of her eyes
and the depths of her dimples.