This conversation lies upon water, adrift—free—light— as our whispers tip-toe to make small waves wrestling with the silence of an absent current. You speak of love and I of hate, of all things that could make a river run towards the falls— to where my arms yearn for an embrace of a rocky precipice. You are a quiet spring as I am lost like harsh rapids— always in fury, always in a rush and always certain to cleanse what could be washed away from existence. Nymphs hold your hand as you hushed my bantering lips with virgin fingers. The mourning bend draws closer— and here you are telling me to stand still and float on without anchors dragging me down beneath these shallow depths. A certain calm shines in your eyes, is this what you call a moment of clarity to see where our words learn not to drown?
Posted on: Tue, 03 Sep 2013 00:26:20 +0000
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