as the grandfather descends into the faded, uncontrollable angles of his mind,
the granddaughter hums to the ocean.
winded, dark, dangerous--and the most comforting thing to be seen in a long time.
time swirls like paddled water, and the life circling around her finger freezes just long enough to catch her breath and hold onto the railing so as to not slip in the ocean, the same descent, the same loss. to be insane is to be dead.
where the snow falls, the man waits. for an answer; a whisper across the Atlantic. you cannot hear the flakes hit the ground, the sidewalk is too wet. no danger between the cracks and across its vast stretches and parking lots. only wet.
if there were no warmth in my hands, i would catch the snowflakes and make it a tower just so i could watch it fall and blow over.
resting, the boat's engines cease their turning, and the granddaughter catches her eye's desire. stealing her breath, squeezing her heart, squandering every good and sensible notion she has ever had. that look changed her. for the "deep," worser. and for the shallow [experience makes better superiors], better.
do i claim my words to speak for the ocean?
well, no one has ever seen the wave. all the waves in the ocean equate to a life of breaths, a story to be told, a narrative to be respected.
and all these words from a basement. who will remember? who will discover? or will they sink into the floor and become soil on the material?
help me find my way cause i've been lost since you've been gone.
