I asked for spontaneity and was given the sea,
churning, laughing, pulling me under,
salt biting my throat, my lungs aflame.
I begged for air, but air is for the cautious.
What I needed was the swell,
the playful violence of the tide.
Oh, but how it seduces!
The sleek curve of movement, the flicker of eyes that never settle,
the reckless grace of bodies bending to the water’s will.
This is the rhythm I wanted,
this is the fevered dance of the untamed,
where trust is a breath held between crashes,
where desire is edged with something dangerous,
something that stings if held too tight.
The dolphins circle, their laughter is cruel, or maybe divine.
They know the game, they play with their food,
a nudge here, a twist there,
the delicate push between pleasure and peril.
The pufferfish swells, thick with poison,
but they are careful, always careful,
pressing just enough to taste the trance,
to slip into that languid haze without slipping away for good.
And you—yes, you—
you are my pufferfish, my drug,
my delirium, my dolphin.
Slender, sleek, ungraspable,
a body built for escape,
a tongue that flicks between truth and trickery.
You smile, and the world bends to your will.
You press against me, but never fully,
just enough to make me want more.
Ah! But this is what I asked for, is it not?
To be undone, to be remade in the image of my own craving?
To drink until the cup overflows,
to breathe until breath itself becomes intoxicating?
The waves pull me under, the sky flickers red.
I see myself reflected in the water’s quaking skin,
a thing both spent and starving.
And I know now:
It was never about the leap, nor the stillness after,
it was always about the space between.
2025