the absence of a small flame

has turned the world to water-

we rock (hand to chin to hair to

hand) and the breeze, the current

pulls at our limbs.

My thoughts cling like silt and

a small place screams with

anxiety- I will not feed it.

The sun I used for a

blanket, wrapped its warmth around

me and focused on Anything Else

(the smell of the wind in

your throat) has set

too soon and

I cannot break the surface of

this ocean, addiction.