His Chest
His chest is like the sandy shoreline of the beaches of my childhood—soft and warm, the ripples of the ocean waves imprinted in the tide pools. Lying on the beach with my cheek against the sand, I can hear the heartbeat of the ocean, the song of the sea.
Sometimes it swells with pride; the mighty waves crash upon the shore with a dignity and majesty that cannot be surpassed.
Sometimes it is wild and reckless, angry as a hurricane—the winds pick up, the waters churn, the earth itself seems to tremble in fear.
And sometimes it is quiet, soft and silent as the gentle rise and fall of the tide, as if the ocean itself was breathing. It is in these quiet moments when the sea begins to ponder things. If you listen closely, you may hear his thoughts carried in the mournful hymn of a lonely whale or the softly falling rain of a midsummer storm or the gentle whisper of the night wind. It is in these quiet moments when the sea clings to the earth, a warm blanket on her shoulders, a warm scarf around her neck. For while the earth has weathered many storms, she knows that she needs the sea—for they are inseparable and individually incomplete.
I love his chest because it proves he has a heart—even when he thinks he doesn't.