This, this, a thousand times this.
You are mud and seashells, gale and lull, give and take. During ebb, when the world condenses into white-purple flashes and soft euphoria, I can reach down to plant a kiss on your slimy forehead. On other days you remain a secret, a soft glimmer beneath the waves, a statue of sharpened rocks barely concealed by the water’s brim. There are times when I can only see the tip of your fingers, sticking up above the surface under which you wait for me, still I know you’re there, waiting, moaning with the flow. You paint me as your queen – eyes like shipwrecks and with the hands of every drowned swimmer entangled in my hair, and the mire beneath our feet sighs in content as it begins to pull us down.
To those of you who might still remember me – I’m back! Sort of. I know I’ve been…
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