la mer


there is no such thing as a place unfilled with this lady.  not only do you need her, you blissfully drink from her fountain, best taken in those moments of clean cool forget breathing you'll work that in during contented subduction or rather form-fitting of lips of different kinds.
leave her and she wraps tendrils around you there were no softer thorns than hers, no scratches from her clawless grasp, nothing but rivulets, gravity-led, returning the pieces.  dramaqueen mermaid who cries at the loss gained back without effort, save that of temerity, of tempestuousness, a maelstrom one whisper a dawdling swell the next sounding.
she'll swallow you whole
she might have been born of the comets, a multitudinous scream giving birth to one child
strange how 16 and 1 become 18immortal
it's perspective, you see, if she gnaws at you or merely by virtue of OCD keeps begging
teasing
whether aided by fetchwind or a lunar knockoff the old planet
she'll breathe, oh how she breathes, relentlessly, sometimes in whispers or in screams along the continental shelf
her touch we all know
the first tease among toes
the maybe my ankles will get wet after all, why not.
becoming the oh, hell, why not full on excursion into her waiting arms, her fingers, no nook or cranny unturned, alive with motion and power
'tis best to learn how and then float for a bit, to see what she says,
if she spits you out, or draws you further out--or rather--in
away, regardless
as if to say "here you began"