drown?

tonight the moon is the colour of streetlamps in the night

we surface; far far below it

from underneath warm currents of the sea

that mimic each phase of the moon, playfully;

eyes closed, arms floating by our sides without compulsion

smoke covers my neck

with rainclouds swirling within it,

like wine

but it dissipates when I blow on it,

and lays itself, instead, over you;

it swirls over the meeting of your eyes and nose,

soothing your persistent headache,

and mine along with it;

it brings little raindrops to your forehead

that lay themselves out over your skin

glinting against the crinkled corners of your eyes

I have given you the weather, now;

and so you smile,

eyes still shut tight

it is almost as though you are too afraid

to see directly,

so instead you see through them;

I have written letters to the Moon,

I imagine he is lonely,

so I collect as many symbols as I can

to entangle into words;

beautiful words that the Moon would learn

under gentle baubles of his light;

we have made our own alphabet

he doesn't write back very often,

though when he does I can see his words etched into the violet-blue sky;

the stars have been confused,

they scatter to the sides of the messages from the Moon,

framing them, without meaning to;

their harlequin patterns make you smile;

Do you like the stars?

there is such an abundance of time,

in this world;

and yet I always find myself

wallowing across the stagnant ripples of a mirror

floating in the liquefying air pressed against it;

but why must I think about reflections

when I have one next to me?

it is distorted, yes,

like an echo, I suppose;

Would you like some sunshine?

It would fit nicely within your brow

Skimming over your forehead and

Nestling in the warmth of your hair?

I turn myself around in the water,

my face cupped by its mold

I look into the sea

for the very first time

it is strange;

there is a silent disquiet here,

an uncomfortable sense of warmth;

as if from a stolen world,

one that is not mine,

neither yours

a world not of our own;

is it us, who have stolen it, then?

or were we stolen

from it?

I look to you

and part my lips so as to speak;

but it is not words that come out

it is my letters;

each floating, like us

for you to see through the lids of your eyes;

I look to you

to ask of you a favour;

I look to you

I ask for you

to cradle my head till I drown

we drift softly apart

and silently,

I await existence