I got to know your heritage while I was talking to your ribcage, 
my ear on your heart; while I was listening to your blood,
flowing to the god-drawn veins in your hands. now I know why
you're so biblical, only son, the only one who's got your 
father's eyes. your blood explained how you were born 
of the lake, and I like how you've got the blue to match.

at home, my lake was to the west and yours was to the north but darling, 
I found my way east somehow, and now, I can hear the ocean.
I don't need to listen closely. I hear it on the train and I hear it 
on the sidewalk and I hear it when my ear is on your heart, when 
I'm getting to know your story and you're reminding me of home.
you remind me of the way the ocean was so far away.

the god that made you made you as an engine, purring, running 
only on lake-water, caffeine, and the salted air of new coasts.
your heart rattles in your chest as though it wants to leave.
I listened, and I got to know where your soil can be found: in the 
bottom of a lake, in the bottom of that blue, away from this ocean and 
back to where you can hear an engine sing. uninterrupted.