frailty     1     2     3

This feeling: lying on the surface of frozen waters (always cold, like the sweet ice dripping off my spoon into my tongue), face up, palms out, eyes filled with sky the same colour as the depths that whisper in my ears: come back Airah, come home. My skin sizzles with ultraviolet rays. I spray it with protection but it smells rotten and is swallowed. Sand scorching through bare toes. Clear waters, shallow for only a few meters but miss a step and it runs deep. A smooth rock with rings for patterns, thrown back into the sea, put into my pockets but swept away by small, calm waves. Two times, I tried. But two times it slips away, joining the others: the see through, the flat, the iridescent. It knows where it belongs but what about me? I forget the farther I am from the sea. But when I am it, when its atoms latch on to my limbs like magnet, when its fishes swim with the fishes in my chest; it reminds me. It calls me, pulls me. And whispers like a lover gasping for air as he chokes on his own sins: Come back to me.

“ Rather than words comes the thought of high windows:
The sun-comprehending glass,
And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless. ”

— Philip Larkin, “High Windows”

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s.t.