Express

You wake up too early; the morning is late but the hours you slept are few. There is a dry sheet of sand paper in your hung over mouth, and your skin is too warm, still too pink from the previous day's sunshine. Smells of an open fire waft in from the living room, as you slowly make your way out into the quiet house: a gentle rain falls on the grass, into the lake. You still go swimming, after the fire has died down. After she tells you of all the things she saw written in her veins when winter was dark. After he tells you what it's like to carry on when nothing turned out the way you had thought. But I'd like to think we're the kind of people who can change our minds. You see easily your own crooked paths winding unsteadily behind you, and realize that you haven't a single answer for them. Your only redemption lies in every morning you still wake up, every day you can put behind you that you survived. Some days that is well enough. 

The little clearing in the woods looks the same after the last words have dissipated, the water lies just as still and just as quiet. You think there should be a way to tell them that. 

Imagine the best way may be to just go for another swim.