lately, my heart has been louder even in echo than my head and i am here trying to navigate the oceans between too much and not enough.
looking ever-closer to where i think the peaks of mountains can be measured between fingertips; measured between dividers; backed by a steady needle’s weight.
a sea claimed Bering through a marshy coastline lit only by oil and torch - where buoyancy can balance treacherous watery routes and rough, shaky hands can trace the pulling of sails through knots towards the exhaling light of an imminent shore.
though i am unsure of the differences between finger-lengths, am i holding back because i cannot accurately predict the pulls of the moon; the swells of tides; the seasons of rough storms?
perhaps even the spark of embers against my heaving backbone - and what of the humming gears of sentience in my chest?
am i holding back because what i lay in permanence always meets a spray of waves? the crash of undercurrents against the breath leaving your lips? -
currents that unapologetically meet the rise of the earth and the curve of your back forcing the Weems to stretch for topography that maybe even my knees cannot lock against.
go down with the ship, i will swallow the grasp reflex that builds in my throat and in my palms.
a million times over i will meet the breaking of every tensile structure in my body if it means catching your swell.
and like the greek merchant’s ship cast deep into the dead sea’s belly, i will be overcome with every ounce of your pressure even if every time i am fated to lose the rise and fall of my lungs to salt water; to a watery grave; to knit sheets and a sailor’s prayer; a promise of ever-lasting life.