Amorphous Affections

October: His arm leads my waist through puddles and rain. Like drops dripping on the ocean and the sea itself, we are two classifications with an amorphous boundary, always shifting, give and take, me drifting onto him, him dripping into me, my ears closer to his heartbeat than his own ears.

October: I release my conscience in the room of a stranger. Our hair intertwined, I dream of he whose own mind I drink like water: I am also made of it. His presence is in me, but I gravitate toward the safety of someone in front of me, someone I don’t need to look inward to see.

October: A hybrid has been crawling past my pillow and infiltrating my dreams. My head has been entangled with too many hair colors. I wish this chimera would blend into a simple dull brown.

November: He is no longer another entity. His actions are nutrients I have digested to the point that they’re indistinguishable from my cells. He is no longer food for thought. Just energy I’ve used, and waste.

November: That stranger is you, the stranger my arm leads through puddles and rain. Like drops dripping on the ocean, we are building an amorphous boundary. Does this bit of me in you stay me or become you? Does the ocean remain ocean as it evaporates into sky? Who owns the parts of ourselves we give away?

November: How many have splashed into my sea of “you,” only to surface as “him” again?

December: This is not a story with a beginning or end. Our bits of selves recycle. We swap forms and cycle identities like water.

January: Each wave overlays the one that crashed before it. I always peer down at the previous one as it settles underneath the transparent top layer of salt water. It’s so tempting to dive back down and figure out what went wrong, to search for treasures that seemed hidden because they never existed, to bask in sunshine I thought was ours to keep. But there is no warmth at the bottom of the ocean. We rode that last wave to the end; now, it has sunken.

January: The buried treasure must be closer. I dig deeper to uncover it. Nothing.

January: I surface just in time to avoid drowning, nearly overtaken by waves that have already crashed.

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