Heights do not matter when you bare into
water and stories; both dripping
drop by drop, a word by word
in passing.
Like, today, when you held my hands and told me to stretch
to get my head down,
the way it will fetch, my leg up. I couldn't at a few goes.
Floating is like talking through stories alone.
Dipping your head down
in known sounds, you tell me;
how you crossed the line of depth and were a villain
and again pushed it over and swam afloat. The dark. The distance.
So you were the hero too. Like how it is to take in air almost as final breathe,
to dig down to die under depths ,then ,slowly, release it all. To come up.
Back to life.
Back to you. To stories again.
In our small flat.
To flowers.
Lights.
Books.
Us.
Alive.