Former Swimmer

The melancholy of this life is that we do not live long enough to bloom, or perhaps that we...

· 1 min read >

The melancholy of this life is that we do not live

long enough to bloom, or perhaps that we live far too

long and our petals become wilted. Both prospects

are equally blue in my eyes when I yearn for a life

in red, though you might have disagreed about the different

shades, for you couldn’t see your petals bloom at all-

no shades of red were red enough and no shades

of blue could match the ocean. I can see you swimming

now, teasing me with cool water and ease of float when

you know how heavy I am, weighed down enough

for both of us and maybe everyone I have ever known too.

I cannot lighten myself to bloom most days because your

teasing splashes across my face and I am full to the brim with

a sadness rivaled by none, surely no person has ever felt

so lifeless, despite the working organs and blinking eyes.

Let me sleep so you and I can swim and laugh into eternity,

light as feathers and beautifully red in the cheeks,

all blues gone from our bodies and returned to the sea.

Return me, now, to the sea and fuel me with happiness

and joy for the sunlight, joy that I have banished from my life

indefinitely- rescue my spirit, captive to grief and guilt,

those two devils I drag behind me in hopes we can become

friendly. I suppose you did not think they would come to bed

with me every night, that they would not dress me each

morning, you could not know I would be locked in heavy

battle with them day in and day out, always losing pitifully.

You could not know any of this and I have no real business

telling you this when, in fact, you are unable to hear it, or anything

really- you do not hear, you cannot see, you will not know

how I die every morning and every night from uncontrollable

heartache and sorrow, intertwined so heavenly that one would

wonder if actually it is not part of a master design. You have

decided never to bloom, which, regretfully, has stunted

my growth and wilted my own petals- how stunningly unfair

that our flowers could not grow together and bloom into

the most beautiful rose garden, heart-stopping and blood red, alive.


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