Melancholy Murmur

I have come back to you like a fog that covers the ocean. You cannot touch me, though; I am here. Warmth spreads with midnight. A passion so high neither of us can sleep. You place your palm on my hip. I take it off. I'm sweaty, I say. When you roll over, I see the distance between us like the Mediterranean Sea that never rises or falls; it just is. I long for the shock of cold water. Pacific Ocean. Salty breeze. Barnacles that cut my foot when I clipped the rock. I only now know to slip on moss. My bare hands are on the stones that have never moved. Where do you go when you are not with me? Who are you with? I long to ask, but the questions slip away like the black birds with the gold bellies. They also do the same thing each day. Rhythm is addicting; it keeps me tethered to a lifestyle I did not design. To make waves, I need momentum! It's so hot, we lay belly up—bloated fish. I've never seen so many broken sea shells. Collect them, if you like, you say.

Why would I? You can make something out of them, a mosaic, with the shards. Instead, I string glass beads in the window and watch them spin. Rainbows. Light. A gentle tap-tap-tap against the glass that I mistake for you knocking. I'm always getting up to answer the door. Sometimes, it's you, though; most times, it's the sound of my heart leaping away from my loneliness. A chamber full of porcelain. My mouth is full of ceramic crowns. Even though I watched the dentist glue them in, I kept dreaming that my front teeth would fall out. I say goodbye to August and picture you standing where the moon should be. Silent and attentive, whithered around the edges. The air is thin. Nostalgic, I remember the moment I felt my heart leap out and you with both palms open. Standing in the center of the net. A melancholy murmur. The days are tighter. The sea is so hot that when I wade into the algae, I forget to say what I've been waiting to speak. Apprehension is the absence of gratitude. I will cry about this the way we all do when August ends.

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