Spitefully contorted prosecutions,
In the form of attachments,
Anchors tied to our ankles,
You know as well as I,
With fear, we wrought them,
Afraid we'd be left to rot without them.
"No man is an island" said someone.
          But we are,
                         Floating,
                                   Weighted,
                                                 Treading,
Storm waters, currents, possibilities,
           Any direction,
           No direction,
           No shorelines,
           No light,
Let alone an end to the tunnels we've dug out,
And lost our souls in.  

In an ocean wide oblivion we reach for the smallest commiserations, you sought my condolences,
Grasping onto me for one steady breath,
And in what looked to you like your grip slipping,
Drowning without meaning,
I saw a slight slip, in a battle,
With a heaviness as ingrained as the need,
To survive,
To swim out to open sea.

But honesty begs me to tell you,
I never was a swimmer,
And I can only loose so much ground,
Before I, myself, start to drown.
Maybe, when your feet next touch,
I won't love in the form of metaphors,

Until then,
I'll see your vastness, raise you a lostness,
And challenge you,  
to a race through everything,
Life can throw in our faces,
                                          To change us,
                                                            Amaz­e us.
And maybe, just maybe,
I'll see you on some sunny day by the water,
Somewhere,
Drifting to me,
Finally in awe of the undertow,
You fought,
                      For so very long.