You drag me down into
these shifting places where
I
Do
Not
Want
To
Be.
Why this kickingdarkswirl?
Don't you see my
hands tremble,
lips shake,
eyes distant?
Does this subsume the ache
for solid things?
I can glide, numbing, nothing.
But feel your fingers,
they are cool, marble, crushing things -
blunt across my skin.
I can glide.
You keep seeking out the shattering
bits of me, waiting for response.
And you are pulling-reaching-expecting,
as I flail my legs unseen,
trying to touch bottom.