Underwater

I see you softly gliding down, drained words

escape your mouth, rising mother-of-pearl

bubbles, I watch as behind glass, noting how

they are magnified in close-ups,

your hair floating, spun out like silk, woven

into fins and gills of past rushing fish,

your skin rippled loose around your breasts, 

as if you were trying to shrug it off, shed it 

dragonfly-like, ready to stretch and lift 

into new shimmering layers. No more

a tearful lover, entangling arms and legs

with mine, no more struggling to escape,

now perfectly at ease underwater. 

Sunlight blinks messages around you,

perhaps, that in order to find peace,

we must learn how to stop breathing.