• Water.
    In the ocean, it pushes me when I pull away,
    pulls away when I push, easily, as if
    my hands could make the tide, the waves
    but my hands are not so big.

    Water .
    It rushes through me as if I were the ocean, and the riverbed,
    and lingers in the air I breathe, not so easily,
    but more so in you.
    I know, because I see it in your eyes-
    blue, like water and like ice.
    Sometimes, they are empty, and heavy like the air,
    and I can't breathe them in.
    But often they are the ocean, the river
    rushing, piercing, sharp, soft
    and liquid,
    able only to break or be broken,
    and never wet, for fear of being

    There is no gentleness in it.
    Even the calm lake, the soft trickle
    has a rushing behind it,
    as if threatening to burst the dam,
    to crash on the shore and pull me under...
    pull you under too.
    The water in your eyes will drown you as I watch,
    will pierce me with shards of ice as it struggles
    to remain solid,
    to calm the waves,
    to understand the currents and the tides.
    Itself, yourself, myself,
    the air I cannot breathe
    is water-
    heavy, and light.