Wading,
maybe the proper word is waiting.
Waiting with rock filled pockets, holding heavy onto my hips,
ocean wrapping itself tenderly around me just like my mother used to,
fingers and body disappearing beneath the transparent water.

Nature slipping down my throat causing fire brushed lungs,
eyes turned up to the sky, a silent goodbye.
No more wading, no waiting.
Only sharp pain dulling,
tiredness becomes peace.
Capsizing.