She was—

half a thing,

half a thought—

and then

gone,

a hand,

pale—

swallowed by the flood,

her breath caught on silence.

The water’s mouth,

wide and soft

as a lover’s,

pulled her with an ease

the earth had not.

Mermaid?

No—

not in the songs they sing.

Not in the myth.

Only the weight of it—

sinking,

sinking—

the world of soft flowers and cold

becoming unmade.

Her fingers—

broken petals in the current.

No one speaks of what she leaves behind—

the eyes,

still wet

with that last breath.