On Swimming


It seems like lately everyone I am around nearly lives inside of the ocean. And it’s something I’d missed, but didn’t know so, while land locked in Idaho. There are few things more delicious on this earth than the taste of a mans cold and salted lips when he climbs from the water to kiss you, his hair dripping on your sunburnt shoulders. There used to be a song I listened to when I first when to Idaho and it said, you turned the masts to cedar trees. I suppose we had our oceans of green.

I try not to allow myself to think of what might be or might have been, as if parallel realities of my lives run side by side. There is only this one. You cannot be in more than one place at a time and yet it remains a struggle to be anywhere for a period of time. They say, your life looks appealing. And I don’t have the heart to tell anyone that I don’t have the heart to stay in one place.

I had dreams last night of big waves and water walls all telling me how I don’t belong in the ocean. And the night before in my sleep I nearly drowned when my foot was caught in a sinking row boat that your mother owned. Every morning I wake up feeling like a foreigner this close to water and that’s no one fault but my own. I’m just not a very good swimmer. 


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