It’s a death of the soul.
As I sit here, perched above the lights and sounds of a tiny farm-town as it settles down
into the night, I let go. The first wave
is a tender hand, painting with wet fingertips
across the canvas of a cheek –
my breath hitches as it turns, for I
know the wave that approaches now,
can feel it in the recesses of my
Drowning is feeling the life pressed out of you.
Ten million hands pressing against every inch of you, exhausting your will first, your life second.
They don’t press hard – that would incite fight.
They gently tuck you between their sheets, and
whisper you into the night.
The second wave is upon us,
wait, upon me, as I recall that I am alone,
and it threatens to capsize us
or me or
whatever there is left.
I’ve fought myself out of fight, I think. So I sit above this sleepy would-be city and watch myself drown.