My heart, too heavy to float, sinks to the bottom of the sea. It is calmer, here--the waves only crash on the surface. Yet the pressure is enormous, the dark thick and boundless. There is no easy way to drown.
(Fickle feelings are quick to construct the alternate realities we lose ourselves in, dead-end branches of a tangled maze, we spend our lives wandering. The exit sign flashes red, but we are easily distracted, by so many illusions, insubstantial as smoke. We believe it when we see it, though we spend our whole lives stumbling through mirages. Our world tethered to what we feel--this is real, this is true, this is touch and taste and smell.)
Follow your heart. Over the cliff, straight to the bottom of the sea--right here next to me. We will lament the lives that led us here, recite the cruelties of fate. Curl into the dead-end and say, to die here is a beautiful irony.
(As water fills our lungs, we have no ears left to hear, how our hearts induced hallucinations--all we had to do was breathe.)