Water

Something is wrong, I am sure of it.

The touch of your skin on the nape of my neck is no longer a comfort.

You have not said a word, but there is a sickness. I can sense it.
We’ve spent years in hallways and alone, always only with each other.

There is something I am unaware of, something hidden and dying quickly.
I have held you and loved you in both the savory dark and the day.

It is over the telephone that you tell me. You are distant and detached.
I have indeed loved you if I am old enough to know and believe.

You, in the quiet and calm, sticky and wet with blood, and so very, truly alone.
I will try to make it up to you. It was nobody’s fault but our own.

Alone in the water.

We are drifting apart, I am sure of it.

In a little house, in the water.

It won’t end well. Another year or so will be all.

In a little house on the hill.
In a quiet, little house on the hill.

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April 11, 2010.

One that came into my head as I was writing in my journal/Manifesto.

Based on a real life account although it did not happen to me.