Salt Water

I sleep a heavy sleep, each dream stranger than the next. The little cabin is silent as the grave, dark, unintrusive. When we wake, the clouds hang heavy, Monday morning and fall is coming, a dread lingers in the air. We make our way to the cliffs; every stranger’s brown skin speaks of an unrivaled summer but you have yet to see it, the loss digs at your gut. The Universe reminds you that it owes you nothing.

By the time we dive into the water, the rain has started, but the sea is warm and kind. You let the salty water rush past your teeth, feel the seaweed between your fingers as you swim along the ocean floor. We tread water and speak of lives lost -our own- and wonder what happens now.

Some days I tire of the constant mulling in my brain. Tomorrow the sun will shine again, everything will be okay one day and when you are ready to turn your life into fireworks, you will. The Universe doesn’t owe you fireworks, after all.

You do.