Growing Gills from Malaga by Nicknames

“Hold your breath, we’re going under!”
He said like a threat to the back of her head
“I’ll just let the water take over,
with my lungs at 90 %, what’s another ten?”
Oh, she could defend
the sun revolving
around us with that lush reasoning,
dramatic? It’s tragic.
‘I’ve had it!’ he meant.
“I… get it.” he regretfully choked out instead.
His grip stopped tightening
at her liquid laments
she slipped out of his hand
to drift with the current

Currently she floats about, around his
only memories of home and how it felt
to wake up with a well inside a recently dry shell
then turn his head to catch her smiling
half asleep in dreams of flying
with her wings of wax on
-a vision of rising action-
“But you flew too high!”
once a shout- now a sigh
he calls out to the sky,
fishing for some kind of closure
wishing for composure
“Wash up with the tide!”
he demands of a lifeless person
at the end of searching…

…for a ghost to fill the void
just one note inside
a symphony of tones
“in my defense
she was the loudest!
The reddest rose without a thorn!
Without her clothes, a perfect form!”
he rambles- on and on,
still going strong- and I can’t stand to
play along as understanding.
She’s been gone, and he’s still drowning
in sad songs
without resolutions
to prolong
the sting of accepting dissolution.
This kid’s obsessed with restitution...
Like fate owes him a favor…
As if he signed a waiver…
Don’t ever fall in love if you can’t handle losing someone!
It’s inevitable,
as nothing stays full.

• Punk
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• Cape May