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fyn gula
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a fish has the sea with continuous arms wrapped lovingly around him, breath contained in the union of fin and wave, a watery grave without sleep, dancing before the fear of drowning.
a dog has its smile, reminding him that happiness is perpetual, that a tail's permanent place is not between the legs, that he puts it there only to apologize.
the earth has trees pushing their roots deep, winding in and out of the moist darkness, holding on to time, growing in the silence.
and what do you have? emptiness?
arms closed? love, a memory? uncertain future?
a fish floating belly up. a dog hit on the road. the earth barren.
she came up to him in the fading light, eyes sparkling each time the moon hit them, hide and seek with the moving clouds. she was smiling. she would have kissed him if he had not taken her face in his hands. he felt the tears, barely believing she was the one who had come.
not him to her. her to him. offering herself to the one who thought he had nothing.
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