Poetry: A Tale of the Sea

My story often told,
Meaning so fleeting.
Always a beginning,
Bathed in yellow and blue.

Sun over Sea scorches soothingly,
A testament to that often told:
I miss the touch of your lips,
The warmth of your skin,
Waves whisper wishfully.

Sight reaches over leagues,
So vast, pristine,
Yet hollows cannot be filled.
The Distance is set; no end in horizon,
I lose sight of your color,
Drained of me then,
Seeping over the great blue.

This which fools the eye,
As rustling, breathing plane.
When such steps be taken,
Drag to depths of greater consequence,
Than that of stone and soil.

And then I wonder,
If stories do have endings.