I can float on top of it as long as I want, but you have become it.
What if I had stayed?
I was willing, my many years ago self.
Maybe we both would have been better off.
Me learning to accept your departures of spirit,
Your disappearances into the netherworld of a darkened mind.
Allowed you that and understood it as a temporary state.
But that is a fabrication
Made up of things that were not meant to be.
You were made of such light,
But the kind that can't sustain itself.
You were not temperate like me but winter and spring,
Locked below a cold layer of snow for months at a time,
With the promise of a blossoming.
So many ardent hopes and aspirations,
Too slippery to get ahold of in the grip of your cold hands.
Spring was not long enough
For the flowering you needed.
But just long enough for the shoots to poke up above the dark earth.
Promising redemption.
Unsilenced before the next round of winter stillness crept in.
There is a raft of sea lions.
Sunning themselves in the sparse winter light.
Maybe below them parts of you are settled quietly,
Like dust on the dark sea floor.
Mingling with kelp,
Disturbed by the occasional pass of a piniped hunting fish
Amongst the dormant roots of an oceanic forest.
Something near the surface drops a piece of it’s meal,
And it too becomes you.
While you become the sea,
More and more as time passes.
Your particles pulverized by the constant motion.
You becoming more dispersed,
Each cycle of the moon.
