water goddess by coffee shop poet.
(I will edit this later. Meant to be taken as metaphorical, so don't interpret as literal, if you decide to interpret it at all. Let me know what you think! If you don't mind. Thank you so much for reading.)
She is a gentle ocean.
And he explores her, wades through her, excavates her like shells and sea-pebbles from beneath her shallow shore.
Pieces of her lodge themselves like sea-glass in the very seams of his skin. The smell of her, like a brush of tapered edges of shore-soaked brine, infect him from the inside out. His mind is drowned in the color of her polished eyes, the bluest shade he's ever seen, shallow pools that betray a sense of depth, as if he will sink forever if he submerged beneath their deceptive surface.
And it's all he ever sees, all he ever dreams, until he could almost be sick of it. But he never is. He always longs to see it every time he closes his eyes. He always does.
And when he bleeds, grains of her being seep out of his wounds, as if she will always be there, beneath the surface of him, all around him. And she will be, if he let her.
She is the placid rain, beating down on him like slippery fingertips, the sensation of her sliding down his pale body, hiding in stitches of his clothes. She is the white-crested sea, the push and pull of the waves, the thunder rolling beneath the breakers pounding against the weakened sand and if he stays still enough, let the waves slide over him, beneath him, inside him, it almost feels like the weight of her body encompassing his.
The warmth of the sun is her warmth. The softness of the seafoam is her skin. The whisper of the water crawling over the pliant sand is her voice, and he melts into the sound, drinking in every word as if it will be her last. And then it sinks away for only a moment, and he fears it won't return.
But it always does. And he is full, full of her whispers against the sand, her sea-foam skin, her sunlit warmth.
Wherever there is water, wherever there is blue…
Katara is there too.
Together, they are a summer storm.
Black clouds gather on the horizon of their side-stepping words, the confessions never dredged up from the catacombs of their mind brewing in the east. He breathes, in and out, and her waves of anticipation grow in the molding hands of his pointed exhalations, restless in their confusion they crash upon the coast with growing agitation.
He wants to tell her, his voice lost in the howling wind, the gales that skip over the growing waves. Behind the walls of riptides and emotive currents, she wants him to tell her too. But all that is born of their resistance is the tempest of desire that just grazes the dark skyline.
His breathing quickens as she approaches him, fierce gales that stir the frantic waters of her heartbeat. Thud, thud, crash, and he takes a step backward, evading the typhoon that threatens his peaceful existence.
Her sea calms, the humid air retreats, and a sigh graces the harbor of her regret.
The zephyr steals away into the west, gentle as could be, and she watches, the tides of her hope drifting back out to open sea.
Ever the eternal hum of waves upon the lonely shore, as he wafts into the distance, to some exotic land just beyond her reach.
And the storm is evaded, if only just for now.
Just for now.
copyright of coffee shop poet, 2010.