I've found myself in the sea, again. Sorry. How many times has it been now? Whenever I’m out of ideas about the sky or time or anything else, I’m tossed back into the ocean to either drown or draw a way out. Or both. Because I lean on waves to carry me. And the moon to hold my head above the water. But I’m tossed back and wading so often, it must bore you to read. I’m sick of it too.
Maybe I’ll just quit reaching for kites since too few have passed as of late, and forget about the air, turn my palms to the seafloor. And grasp at crescents of sunlight, long sunken and silent. Maybe I’ll just quit the air, at least for a little while.
I’m going to need a mermaid. I’ll need their lungs.
But they probably won’t come.
They’ll probably be climbing a cliff.
I wouldn't want to be around myself either.
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