There is an art to loving you that I haven’t figured out quite yet. I’m failing you. I see it, but I can’t stop it, either.
The ocean is tossing and turning and so am I.
Restless and captivating, churning up sediment and sentiment, resentment and reassurance.
Seaweed getting tangled up in confusion.
Knots of bull kelp suffocating my heart and rotten driftwood leaving splinters all over my body.
Bubbles of rage escaping my breath, screaming into the deep abyss.
I examine the massive bubbles with wide eyes and, as they escape my mouth and nose, they are blasted off into oblivion in quick successions.
Raging as I push my body deeper toward the ocean floor. My hands were quickly sculling back and forth, and I point my toes and keep expelling my lungs to sink even deeper.
Then at just the point before my lungs have wholly emptied and my body has grown weaker, curious, tiny bubbles begin to flow out from within, and my soul has calmed.
I begin to float back upwards, and land just below the surface in a big front starfish float.
Swirls of my hair circle all around me and sweetness flushes over my skin again.
My heart is suddenly tame, and my body flops over onto my back like a salmon that has been played by a fisherman for a very long time.
The sun shines through the clouds and greets my cheeks and belly.
In these tender moments where I let the waves take my body, I can love you as I succumb to my surroundings and let go of my control.
I’ve found the solution in my breath and ability to relax. But before you know it, some ominous clouds appear up above, and my stormy heart rolls back in. Control and hope lost once again.
The art of loving you once again pushed into the open blue and the waves push it back into the unknown.