water

Stand by the water when the moon rises heavy, ethereal and precious because you cannot hold it. All you can have is its color, the ribbons of silver that will throw itself at you, rippling infinitely closer, so close you cannot remember whether it is coming for you or if you had actually come here for this. And in your silent silver wonderings you’ll forget you are solid, separate from what you see. Without realizing, you’ll remember that water makes you yearn for what is not yours to have and so you cannot help but reach out empty, cupped hands, hopeful for something to take home with you. The wetness of the water. The ribbons of reflected moonlight. Some sense of belonging that promises to fill the emptiness of your openness.

When you finally turn to leave, though, you’ll want to tuck your hands back into your pockets. Search out a little something for your fingertips to feel, some softness in the fabric of the pocket itself that can insinuate a reassurance that you’re not empty after all, that life is full of busyness and goodness and badness and worries and there, you feel better having left the water and its moon far behind you. Sweet nothings and notifications cover but do not fill the openness that so often pulses and presses up from within you, threatening at times, threatening to send you back to the water in search of what should or could solve the situation that is you. Familiarity dampens the intensity of feeling so that it is simply the moving-silver color that will come back to your mind, later, when your heart is suddenly deluged by diffuse desire for that which would be yours if only you could touch it, name it.