Whispering. Wishing.
With the water washing over.
Swish
swish. I wish, I wish. And him limp, listless. Lying lumpen
and
leaden; deadened, decaying.
No, not
even praying: not anymore.
An
ocean for a wishing well. White sands
yellowing in the foam.
And the
water comfortably warm: of woman, of womb.
Sucking and
sliding. Creeping up and sifting away.
And his
head muggy with words and wishes.
Fishes and kisses.
Sandcastles
and siren’s singing. The sun beating
down.
And
somewhere distant someone laughing.
The
water licking his back with its clammy tongue.
The
wind carrying soft syllables. I wish, I
wish.
And his
feet bobbing in the water.
And him
tasting, not tasting, the water in his mouth.
The
briny effluence, analgesic and addictive:
Drinking
it into his lungs.
Now
floating so sweetly, under the water, with the fishes.
Laughter
and singing, undulating.
Heady
as mulled wine
Or the
first kiss of a cigarette.
Drifting. Twisting with the eddies. Not feeling. Not seeing.
Not
waving. Not caring. No.
Not
even praying.
Not
anymore.
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