Lost [my way to you]
by Charlotte E. Wilde
Ugly idleness sits uneasy, manifesting guilt in hobbies found & lost, tilt-a-whirl horizons, or hopes of escape from the blade of a cyclical midnight mind. I’m beginning to think there’s something in the water. The night feels deeper here, as though you could get lost– walk straight in and it would fall behind you as a heavy velvet curtain, separating acts 1 and 2 of your life.
Last night I think I found you swimming in the margins of my post-apocalyptic dreams. We were spiraling, splayed in the crease where the words disappear, blank space where milky silence reigns sovereign and poetry yields to our imagination’s wild. Tonight, when I pass the threshold into the void of low-toned bullfrog silence, I can taste you.
I’m standing at the edge, staring down at a sky reflected from above as a skewed surrealist version of stars scattered amongst spirals of ink colored algae. The water beckons, black and infinite, and I feel you there, sighing.
Thoughtless, I slide into the murky depths. I sink down and tangle my limbs in the weeds on the bottom of your mind and with one slow inhalation I draw you in. I want to drown in your perspective, swim into the recesses of your mind and trade my memories for a lung full of your hoarded secrets. I want the last breath I take to be silent depths, languid liquid, the voiceless, visionless version of a hidden soul slipping into me and filling me up.
I feel you then, slowly thrumming in my temples, chest, veins, until a heavy stillness takes over. Solitary confines spill a freedom born of weightlessness and I am nothing– just slipping, inky silence, and the void of middling missives in a looping life.
I look up. The sky blurs and stretches to meet the horizon, the water sighs and leans to meet the sky, and I, blank and seamless, lie mired in the weight of silky mud. A pale body quietly drifting underneath it all, drinking it in, hair like algae spiraling and glassy-eyes reflecting a skewed surrealist version of the stars.
The night feels deeper here, as though you could get lost, as though every breath could take you entirely away from it all. I’m beginning to think there’s something in the water; each swallow may well be the last.