I See Me

I saw you in the water.

I stood there as the storm burned through the cold. When my eyes could part I saw the water.
With a current that begged and pleaded.

I saw you in the water and I fought. My bones kicking and screaming and my eyes unable to now close.

I saw you in the water.

My hand shook in the reach as if the fear was in the burn, not in the touch. Time wouldn’t slow. For nothing in nature will abide by the voice of fear.

I saw you in the water.

My index finger grazed the top layer and the ripples sparked like fireworks in the night’s sky. A mandala of circles unleashed before my eyes that still would not close.

My hand froze outstretched.
My body lingered in stillness.
And the only water I could feel was the outpouring of salty drops now painting my face.

I had seen you in the water.
But I don’t any longer.

I had raged against what I thought I was seeing. Only to find that the heat was from my own withholding. I see me in the water. I see me in the depth of darkness and the sheen cast from the light. I see me in the creation of the ripples.

I saw you in the water.
But that is no longer.

I see the water and before I am brought to my knees, I SEE me.

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