The Current

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Every time I fall in love, it feels as though I am getting away with something. Skating along the surface in a two-man sailing ship built out of sex and camaraderie, skipping from island to island across some spark-gap in a machine powered by human will. A two-man sailing ship raised by us, from the stuff and substance of the water itself.

(As the water has raised us from itself, in turn. It may at times raise a cat; it may at times raise a tree; it may raise a man with shining eyes, here at the shore of the sea.)

But I digress.

I would sail with you forever, until the whole of that ocean of shimmering gold either fuses together or breaks apart. I do not embark casually, and I can’t do it any other way. After all, an opportunity missed is the end of a Universe, and I am not in the habit of putting my head down and retiring early (except to retire with you).

That said, I suppose I should know better than to expect the luxury of making plans. The storm arrives; my hands blister. We have lost our way by dead reckoning. And inevitably, there is a point at which I look down only to find – always to my surprise – that my feet are not on the boards, but rather perched at the peak of a different wave: stuck there by you like a star atop a tree.

The whole of that Cosmos is still, and the world waits in wonder at the crest. Suspended at that amplitude, relative to eye and breath, it occurs to me what’s going on: of course you have a choice in the matter, as I am a big believer in will, and will is miraculous. As it stands, it’s all I can do to wheel my arms and fill my lungs before I am sucked out of phase.

(You must be very respectful of things you throw into the river of Time, my love; for sometimes the current brings them back, and sometimes it does not.)

Would that you could draw me out again, a self-same cup of water from the deep. But here there is no distinction between girl and tear and salt sea, and after years of dragging my feet in bloody effort I find a certain solace in that. So what is there now to do.

I simply hope to emerge as coughing, sputtering foam on a distant shore, and that you will recognize something of whatever is left. You recognized it this time, after all; maybe even a time before. All the same, it’s of no immediate use to watch shadows creep across the floor, to cast lines into what is yet to be.

You-know-what is of the essence.

The day grows late; I’ll put on a pretty dress (one that you have never seen) and, finally, go outside. In spite of everything, I must still emit a faint, pulsing signal; something particular of me. Receive it, if you can, if you like; for after all – after all things (my love) – where there is a will, there is a wave.

About the Author: 
Jennifer Blair is an actor, party girl, and writer living in New York, NY. Her mind is in the gutter; her heart, in the clouds. Twitter: @fakejenblair Instagram: @ladybotjenblair