I will tell you this: the ocean knows in its unfathomable eternity, my entire existence, as if a lover in the deep blackness of midnight.
It is familiar with every ebb and swell of my hips and how my limbs taper to veritable anemones in its grip. But although the surf caresses me until I ache, I keep myself together - for I am not ready to commit to the depths of the world’s waters.
But I have always rehearsed drowning: the ocean’s dark mouth swallowing my heat and breath and life; my spirit kept like a fish to be caught in the thundering currents. When the brine starts to smell of your lost matter, I spurn the salt embrace to return to tasteless air, safe from deep promises - and live hidden, among the mysteries of the shore, craving the slightest sense of light.
But still the surf beckons to me and leaves treasures at my feet: the polished hulls of ocean life, the detritus that mimic jewels in the sun. But I cannot accept them.
For I long not for the bleached and blanched versions of what the sea has taken and claimed. For I long not for the tokens of those that have died and gone.
For I only long for what lives and what is now.