A Quiet Sailor

I am not...I suppose....a man of great many words.
I know I don't truly impress you with...astounding thoughts.
The things that are important to me, facts, figures, practical things that you can feel in your hands...those don't mean much to a teacher type or an artist like yourself.

But, even for not knowing what to call what I look at when I see you paint, you know, what kinda brushes or special oils or...styles. Even if that's just talk to me I know what I see when I see you work, when you really work and it's like you leave earth. I know what that's like.

As for me, my life suits me fine, I suppose. I've never cared where I lived as long as my body didn't give up on me, I resolved not to give up on it. But I know it pains you so to move. I know, I know, I thought this last trip was the last one. And I'm not telling you that you have to come with me. I have never told you that.

Just...so you know....this will be the last one. I feel my body starting to not try as hard as...well as my bain is telling it too or something. I know this is the end of my time at sea. You, you can paint for your whole life, I swear every day you're getting better. Maybe when this is all over, and we really settle down, really....maybe I could spend some time and you could teach me what it is that I'm looking at, so it sounds like I know a damn thing when I try to talk about it.

Maybe you'd like that? I just hope you're around....please forgive me. This is all I've left to prove to myself. To prove that I can stop, and settle. To prove that I can be as calm as you are all the damn time about doing nothing...I don't mean...not nothing....I just....I need this for me.

I'm not asking you to come with me. I'm not asking you to wait. But that face you're making seems to tell me I've got nothing to worry about. I love you, dear.