I didn’t dip my toes—
I dove…
Headfirst,
into blackwater cold.
Where sound folds
and light forgets your name.
I opened my chest like a wound,
let salt flood the seams.
Even the moon turned away
when I slipped
underneath.
Down I sank—
past jellybone dreams,
through shipwrecked wants
and the bones of things
that once begged to be held.
The pressure kissed me into silence.
Ribs cracked prayers.
I swallowed every word
you never said.
You stood above,
ankle-deep in the surface,
watching the ripples
I made while choking on water,
lungs screaming for air.
Only when they stilled—
when the bubbles stopped laughing—
did you reach out.
Your hand broke water
like a question mark,
but I was already
drifting –
sideways,
downward,
becoming less of myself,
and more of a current,
a hush
the ocean keeps.
You called my name
and something answered—
but it didn’t sound like me.
It didn’t blink.
It didn’t breathe.
Silence.
Or something like it.
Then the sea
ate the rest.
And maybe I rose.
Or maybe I didn’t.
Or maybe I was never there
at all.
