The dark sea. That most familiar theme. Mostly still and silent. Waves only rarely drawn beyond the high water mark, carved like a warning. Sometimes drawn by the swelling and receding of the moon. Sometimes by tremors in an unexplored core.
And I can’t resist walking into the lapping night lit dark. Following the shimmering light line into the deep, deep part of it. Where I can sink a little. Give up the weight. Float just beneath the dividing. Where sound and sight are muffled and blurred. Where taste is salt and brine. Where I will not be reached by love or tenderness. Where the aloneness is not about being separate, but is a melding into self. Full of fear and the treachery of unsounded depths.
And I hope. Floating in the watery, barely echoing black. That my feet will still touch ground. When I come back up for air.