Lament from the Ocean

You were always one step ahead of me. And I loved that about you.

You had the ability to weave an entire world with your words and I'd always get swept up in the waves of your intricate storytelling. An unexpected meeting with an old friend would turn you into a playwright, with me as the audience as you presented your one-man production of the history you two shared. I held your hand, looking at your back, as you explored an infinite world of possibilities in the most mundane things, steady and sure without ever letting go.

Your words fascinated me, liberated me, inspired me to break through turbulent waters and view the world through your eyes. And I tried, I tried so hard to catch up to the brilliance you painted the world with but I was always one step short.

You never seemed to mind; at least not from the start.

Slowly you began to save your words. At first, you'd give me a movie script, gradually turning into an essay, later a paragraph and finally, barely a sentence. You conserved your words for others, setting me aside as shackles slowly began crawling up my wrists. I wanted to reach out for you, to finally express the thoughts bubbling within me but I was far too late. I fell overboard, swallowed by the blue-black abyssal waters as you drifted away from me. I've been trying to swim with both my hands behind my back, trying to close the gap between us, but I am anchored, doomed to spend the rest of my days struggling to remain afloat with my head above the coarse salty reservoir.

I know one day I will be required to break free of these fetters myself, to stop myself from drowning and swim ashore but, my dear, you knew I always feared the ocean.