The water keeps its secrets from me, selfish veins of god that hurtle endlessly over my fingers, around my legs. The water takes me in but leaves me here, a selfless mother to pull my lips to her liquid breast; love bleeds a milky red down my naked chest and the water plays pied piper, calls my loneliness self. Through my fingers: above, the arching form, my heart takes no one across, it is just me down here, me and you and a bridge, and sunlight slicing through the fluid cold, an incongruous bright through my fingers. Through them, the arching form, my aching storm, the rustle below the curve. You put your head in the water and I try to absorb you, every little speck I can catch.
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Updated Thursday, 04-Mar-2004 14:58:31 PST