we were poetry written with pens that scribbled out each drop of ink until there was nothing left to write with, but the tide came in and knocked at our metaphors and rhythm, pulling the pages of our little stories and moments further and further from shore, tearing apart our binds and page numbers with the force of a love that has been submerged in stinging salt and swells of water that crawl into the very lungs that admire them. and all our lines have been smudged, and the ink has run down each paragraph, and the paper holding each word floats just beneath the surface - close enough to reach for, but becoming more and more breakable with every particle of water that sinks itself into its stitches, urging its corners to fold and its edges to tear.
