Swallow the Fog
He stands upon the land, by which the water meets
Roiling, richoting, riotous,
And his house, it looms behind.
Too bland, I think, to ever belong,
In the hands of such a man.
I blink, it stays,
Encapsulated by the mist, now curling past his lips,
Sharp fingers scrape along, the insides of my lungs,
Chilled vapor far too cold to
Ever be mistaken for smoke.
He coughs it out anyways,
As if wishing for his chest to flay,
And heart to stop its drumming beat.
Salted sweat sticks, strands to my jaw
And a pale forehead.
Still he stands, imposing, a mirror
To my own figure,
Raised and draped in viscous night.
“Breathe in”
The liquid twists, the dress it clings
Down my waist and shoulders tight,
Do not close your eyes just yet.
“Breathe out”
The moving mouth continues still
Words remain unheard,
As the only sound is rushing waves,
And a roaring present in my ears.
I am moving backwards,
Drifting in a current.
I should, I think, run away,
But my feet are solid lead
And my legs are carved of marble and stone,
And it’s not quite time
To close my eyes just yet.
