Fish

I flit around, scales constantly cool,

pecking what I want and glaring at the sun,

a golden harvest set above me in the sky.

I see you, you look programmed,

rotating and gliding through water, all so smoothly.

We go along together, sometimes,

to socialize at the reef or go spelunking.

Our tails propel us deeper into the blue:

French blue to cobalt to midnight,

so we can kiss in the quiet dark.

Then our lips swollen from pressure and water,

you and I become intoxicated,

so much so that I watch you drown,

slippery fin

s and waterlogged body,

and you drown below me.

I hover, while you and my heart sink.

There’s no thrashing, you’re sedated,

in an elevator to the ocean floor.

When you’re gone, no trace of you to follow.

I can’t tell the difference between all sorts of salt water,

what I make or what we had shared.

There’s no life around me then,

so I travel, sea scapes and rock beds,

but the community is quiet,

all swimming in x and y formation.

Without you, there are no other fish in the sea.