Drifting out to sea. I lost track of time.
The sky tells me nothing interesting or specific.
Sometimes I see you sitting there, on the horizon, waving. Or wavy. Either way, ready to evaporate.
I wake up and feel for my collarbone with arthritic fingers and it feels like
I could open up massively there.
Coldness invariably creeps. I’m unfurling.
My unsaid words shower
Over me daily and most times
I still smell your skin upon mine
Floating to the top in the density
of the air until slowly it dies,
Pulled into a deep chasm
By its own natural undertow.
And my handwriting falls overboard and
Into an ever overlapping riptide of an estranged ideal.
Shipwrecked thoughts and capsized intentions.
The pull of the wheel is what I am constantly counterbalancing.
No North Star. All bled out.
Only a blinking transmission, drowned out by an immense night.