The easiest thing we can do is to see the worst in each other. Hardwired biology—avoided, suppressed maybe, but never erased, always lurking in the depths of us. Caught and festering in the cross section of the lungs, nearly escaping into reality with every exhale. Nearly.
There is a never ending list of terms of endearments and none of them suit you very well. I imagine, sincerely, they will carve ‘loving husband, father, and son’ on your headstone for lack of better descriptors. No matter true or false, you will not be more than that. I’d wish for my grave to bear a lack of words purely to ward off unwanted guests. Speaks for itself: bury the poet sans the alphabets that kept her alive.
It took one dinner to decide whether I’d rather sink or be saved by your lifeboat. Won’t you look at me now—corals for a crown! I ebb with the tides but for the most part maintain my distance from the shore. My footprints no longer fit squarely on sand or asphalt; what others deem an abandonment, I deem a freedom.
If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound? If I drown in the blue and the fish are the only witnesses, does that suffice as a funeral? If I choose to show you mercy, who—in turn—will show it to me? The Titanic left a plank as it went down; what do you call that? Purpose or problem? Fate or fault? Would you blame the plank for Jack’s letting go? Closure is not the award of answers but rather the abandonment of wanting to know. I destroyed the plank so future lovers who find themselves in the blue can see the bottom together.
Pardon, sorry, forgive me, my darling, I don’t think you’re seeing this for what it is: I keep writing about the blue until it no longer scares me—until I have it blooming under my fingernails as I set my tea down on my desk. You wouldn’t think one could write about the blue with the blue while being in the blue, under the blue. But here, here, my darling, take the whole truth: When you grow up crying on an island, you learn more than kicking to stay afloat and drowning voluntarily.
The easiest thing the blue can do is drown us. Handcrafted design—menacing, fated, ready to swallow. The easiest thing we can do is to give in.
But there’s not much to write about on the easy path.
The coffin sinks to the bottom of the blue with a thud.
No one shall speak of it anymore.
Read blue burial and blue burial (reprise).
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