In the sea, you feel dissolved. You thought that would be resolved when you learned how to swim but you looked down at the grim, dark ocean and could not quiet the commotion rattling in your mind. Our fingers were intertwined and I asked you what was wrong. You told me you could hear a gong ringing in your ears, sirens singing to your fears, an invisible Kraken’s tentacle stringing you along an inevitable fate that not even the oldest of seers could stop.
You spent the rest of the day hissing open soda pop cans. You wouldn’t let me hold your cold hands. As you twisted the metal tabs off, you persisted that you weren’t in control. You listed all the reasons and resisted all my treasons, but I know you—you were glad you existed. You may hide behind your blue world view, but I can pick up every clue that you lied. I know you, even if you don’t. And you won’t. You will call yourself consumed and live like you’re doomed but I see you, I see that you’re still whole.
This is the role I auditioned for, the art I’m commissioned for. I will pry your clam shell apart and lure you away from a self-made hell. I am not afraid to be attached because I am not afraid of loss. Though you are truly unmatched, I will cross into your nine rings if it means I can again see the sweet spring in your smile, a blooming relief that suspends me with disbelief and forever beguiles me. I willingly degrade for a chance, even a glance, of finding you cool in the shade, shielded from the cruel morning star’s light, yielded to a bizarre night.
When the sun was set and my feet were no longer wet, it is finally easier for you to forget your ocean woes because now you saw the yellow lunette and remembered how to compose your favorite stoic persona. The heroic Epona. Some god of virility, some master of tranquility. Fahrenheit degrees dropped faster and a breeze brought you closer and next thing I know, I’m also a composer of sweet lies, I’m looking up at dark skies, and I wonder what is beyond the void.
Often, you’re annoyed that I care. It’s not a sentiment you share. That’s your claim, but it is evident you do, even if you wrap it in shame and set it aflame and give it a different name. I’m familiar with your verisimilar tale about being nothing resembling frail. But you fail. This is not an F on a Canvas quiz, but rather a clef scribbled over five lines, five signs that your act is transparent. The fact is inherent, it is barefaced but divine and interlaced with dry wine that you will be fine. If you fall, you’re caught—that is my promise tied in my heartstrings’ knot—and if I fall too, well, that’s my enthusiastic curtain call.
Thereof, this is my declaration of love. And you may shove, you may flock as a mourning dove, you may slip me off like a glove and lament it’s a feeling you’re unworthy of, but I am already absolved from whatever sins you’ve tried to wash off in the sea, evolved past whatever dirty skin you’ve tried to hide from me.
In the sea, you are dissolved.