The Plunge

If only your smile wasn't etched on my heart. If only your lips weren't grafted on my skin. If only.

You knew back then what I know now. You knew. That it'd be good, that it'd be more than good, maybe even better than great. You knew. That hands don't have to be held to be warm, that lips don't have to be kissed to be wet, that words don't have to be said to be heard. You knew. Oh yes you did. So why didn't I? Why didn't I know that aching souls can be cured by drunken sunsets, that there was more to it that meets those beautiful blue eyes, that there is more to this, to life, that merely being able to hide behind childish stupidity?

Why didn't I? Or maybe I did know. Maybe the only way we know how to avoid being consumed by fear is to hide from fear itself. Maybe that's why you knew and I didn't. Because you weren't afraid. You were willing to take the plunge. Instead, I took the plunge(r) and I drowned it. I drowned it into your red and rugged glass of white wine. And it drowned. And it sank. And it kept on sinking. Just like that boat in the middle of the empty ocean, with a little black hole piercing its skin, allowing water to ooze in, drop by drop, until there was no more space left, and so, the only thing left for it to do was go down. Slowly.

Slowly. I watched it, go down. I am watching it. But then I remember your smile and your lips, and suddenly, just like that, the boat stops sinking. I realise there's a plunger right where the hole used to be, and for a minute, could have been a second, reality is no longer etched and no longer grafted. For a minute, it is what it is, because what it isn't doesn't make much sense at all.

You knew, didn't you? You always did.
It's all good though. Because now, now I do too.