I rub my thumb across my bottom lip.
Feel my fingerprint drag across.
It's a motion. . .
There you are across the room.
Seeing me struggle to breathe in again.
Wondering what it is
I'm listening to inside my head.
I can't swim against the current
called life, so it sweeps me up.
Tangles me in flotsam,
washes me with
confusion to untangle.
Drowning,
it's a motion. . .
It'll leave you floating face down
no matter how well you swim.
That is, unless, you wash up
on the shore with the willingness
to breathe again.
