She is becoming more ocean-minded with a constant wave of emotion struggling to stay afloat on land. Beneath the tides and calm of the sea, she wraps countless wrecks with her smile at ease. Love the ocean but frown at the beach, watching the waves persistent at their reach. The radiating sun illuminates the blue with colours of gold, like the big blue sea was only in stories they told. The vastness and depths she kept hidden, like an empty vessel creating her own emotional prison. What is this obsession with the oceans that you sea? Endless, mysterious, scary were synonyms she agreed. But it was the ocean that gave the shapeless skies a purpose to breathe. She is chaotic but wasn’t reckless, she is fickle but wasn’t feckless; she deposited her share of silt with every wave, she found no comfort being a slave. It was in the ocean that she stretched her presence, decompressing the pressure she learnt of her existence. She chases not the sun as the day is put to rest, nor the moon that cradles the stars causing unrest. Deep in the ocean no sun no moon exist, its the calmness that swallowed, how could she resist?
Burning rust on the horizon I settle on the bottom of the ocean floor,listening to fish folk stories that yearned to taste the blues of the sky. Dead skeletons of a dead fish lay on the shore, done with all the flipping and flopping, he lay there with his mouth open. Like he had begged for the ocean to take him back. But, it didn’t. It didn’t like most do. Do dead fish have a heaven or hell? Do they have a bucket list or some type of story to tell. Or do they end up like a washed up trick choking depths of unseens sights? Did he wonder what the sky tastes like or did get sick from all the salt in the sea life. Did bigger beasts of the seas put him up to a fight, or was he the one to stay far away from their sight. Has he seen the bottom of the ocean in all its glory, or just swam where the bubbles could rise. Did he swim along the great white sharks in circles or has he spoken to ancient eels from different tides? Has he hovered near sea turtles swimming on their backs for millenniums.
What to him was a mystery? A fish out of water, separated by land and sea.
Golden sunset glow drips down my skin, slanting the shadows and drifting the blaze of the hot summer gaze. I want to smear the sunset with something other than the orange light, how about I paint it with the colour of your deep brown eyes? Bold on your eyelashes that guard the windows of your soul. Like picket fences caging the wild horses that refuse to be tamed, every time I look into the colours of coffee-roast, I ask for to be named.
There’s always something about Paris that makes you float away into a dream that makes staying awake useless. A stained memory of what could’ve been to what it turned out to be. Oh Paris, you take me back to a time when I thought you would flood into my veins like the blood could never overflow. Like my wound was held together by a bandaid that could not split wide open. But it did, I bled into you and went with the flow. I need to fix this wound, that’s what the broken do. So, I will come back to your golden sunset where Arc de Triomphe meets the busy runway of Champs-Élysées, until then keep your streets shining and I will keep my eyes open to fall asleep when I come to you. That’s how you will fix the broken in me.
It’s well past midnight but you’re still on the roads, bending over the handlebars with the wind in your bones. Asphalt streets curve and stretch, your hamstrings work overtime forming heads of sweat. Nothing like flying through the cemented jungles on a metal frame that is driven by your pedal. For each push and pedal beneath your feet, cycling your way never leaves you beat. Put your metal to the steel and you will see how life on wheels.
Empty bottles clinked together sounding like rain rolling off the roof in a home that witnessed your transformation from the optimist to pessimist to realist. From afar you would look past their curvy edges as they appear empty. It’s the outer beauty that always wins battles while the inner one kills itself even before the war begins. Does that count as victory? Anyway, the emptiness is swallowed by all that breathes around them tearing open the mouth. The whole world can be poured into these glass bottles, merely cause they stand empty. Victory isn’t because the bottle is half full. Victory is because you emptied what was in full.
She will make you do incredible things and make you believe in the most beautiful ways to breathe. She once walked barefoot on the moon just to prove to herself she could. She’s been dreaming for years about getting out of the small town that’s been holding her down for quite some time now. Her hope has been blinded by men telling her one thing and each giving examples of why she stopped trusting a long time ago. It’s only matter of time before the road starts moving again, but until then, she’s planting the seeds needed to replace the flowers life had stolen from her last year. You may be able to take a few things from her, but she knows how to salvage the remains in order to create a meaningful life without you.