She writes poetry
As though she knows me,
But what a facade
She's really seen.
Only a surface glean.
Calm still water,
Digging below the depths,
Raging saline.

i used to send you memes,
it's no longer a habit of my day.
i realized i haven't sent any in a while,
i miss our old ways.

while surfacing in the liquid grove of our punji sticks
and pine sap fire
we lose our hearing… and whalesongs become a myth
as we emerge from the abyss -
as abysmal as a flotilla of spirals
and as deaf as a merciful nod.
but we see the Sun
for the first time.
and with our beginnings begun -
we be gone...

beyond.