Water: a dipperful to soothe lips aching from absent kiss-prints, arms in need of a mirror to break without shattering, the slight frisson of skin-slip in place of pestilent longing. Were the Great Lakes bearers of secluded messages, ere errors encompassed logarithms of uncaught fish…! They dash along a rocky coastline, bracing for the deep impact of waves hurling against stone-swept surf; regardless of nomenclature.
Sacrificial though the catch transpired to be — certitude of blessing through lurching intoxication of body and soul — an accidental injury reoccurs (infinitude). He thought he could save them. You took them home before he could reach, as the wind soured hotter than scorched in the smack-dead center of a carefully-plotted tropical outing to celebrate the forthcoming union; a never-joining of assets.
Biased perception: the most visible color of our planet from other galaxies reveals the source. Water, its fluctuations unceasing in apparent mellifluous fluidity — pirouetting en pointe — calls beyond any shore you could ever aspire to reach beyond the plane of sonder. Vibrations of luted rivulets, runnels of elusive eternal youth, traverse unto the vastest breach of ocean, beyond the forest-fires first discovered by that ultimate inventor (man hath crowned himself as such).
But for all that shall continue to transpire, as liquid flows forth from the cycle of birth and death; but for the battered heart-component of the husk you call his shell, you cannot change this.
© Jane Bled 2016-2017
All Rights Reserved
Of all the elements, I love water best. Contraindicative of my preference: I almost drowned in a family friend’s pool when I was a youngster. As I sank below the chlorinated surface, limbs uselessly flailing, my childhood pal jumped in and saved me. He was the same age, but he knew how to swim, whereas I hadn’t yet learned. After that incident I took swimming lessons and grew to adore the sensation of gliding gracefully through water — flying without wings.
Shane, wherever you are now…thank you.