Amanda Townsend

                                                      Water Body

Dear you, it’s me; and I know exactly what you’re thinking: Why now?
I really can’t say, except I had a dream the other night of you drowning.
And in between the struggled gasps escaping your foaming mouth, I remembered
those were the same lips I searched for in bed at midnight, in the darkness.
Those hands flailing over waves were the ones I held onto like if I ever let go,
I’d never hold anything again; those eyes, now rolling back into your skull, they were
the perfect white orbs I held in jars like fireflies, until they said you’d die if I didn’t set you free.
Last night I watched you drowning, and I had no legs to stand on; I was treading beautifully.
And I watched you disappear beneath the bubbles you left behind, I saw you sinking
like a stone. You were just dead weight now, and what once was you
became nothing—a thought I couldn’t stomach, like seawater, it’ll eventually dry me out.
Dear you, it’s me. And I know exactly what you’re thinking: Why now?
I just wanted to say I dream of you still, I just wanted to ask you to
stay away from water bodies.

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Amanda Townsend lives in Toledo, OH. She believes in friendships that can survive a bad romance.