Dressing the Wounds

Even if you could swim you wouldn't want to swim that far. Better still just to drown there. Sure the water is listening. Draw in it. In colorless crayons. Wear it. Like running stockings. Overwhelmed with the imperfections of flesh. Bled down to the shoes that make us taller. Pooling in the heels that make us thinner. Sour love letters soiled by the time we let separate us. Sweeter for having waited.

If only we hadn't waited this long.

No words left to turn. Nor beds to make. Just us. In disjointed handshakes. In the leaky buckets we carry away from the source. Rushing to get back to where we never were.

Sad because it's over. Happy because we're not lost in it anymore. It's ours. We possess it. It's ours. We still dress it. In the clothes we used to wear.