I want to be like water.
Water has a quiet power, an ever-realized presence, a sound with no force, an ability to move and be solid.
If I could be water I would slide through your cracks, inhibit your crevices and then become solid within them.
I would vaporize so that you could breathe me in and taste my smoke.
I can’t manipulate water; I am not graceful or flowing.
I am made of flesh and bone that refuses to adapt, refuses to recreate itself.
No matter how much I want it to.
No matter how much I want to become everything that you are.
This stubborn flesh hides my thoughts behind watery eyes, my tongue forbids my speech and again
I wish I were water.
That my words spilled out.
Truth be told I would love to witness their birth, these words.
For I myself don’t know their final form.
Sometimes I feel as though their sheer utterance may keep me from bursting.
I wonder if there is something wrong with me, possible glaring abnormalities, differences that I should be paying attention to.
The two of us.
we are a puzzle with half the pieces missing, as if we took them and shook them and dumped them in the river and now have decided to scour the world in search of their remnants.
They would have been warped by the river, and even if by some miracle we came upon them.
They would not be the things they once were.
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