It's cool as it brushes along their skin, a silent call to relaxing, a silent call to cooling the body down. It's a whisper against their skin, that for a moment the outside world will not cause problems; it's as if they are dreaming, as if she and he were able to just be by each other's side, fully human, and sharing another dance.
It's as if even the cracks now aren't appearing, as even if this will last, but some endings aren't near as beautifully written, as one longs for, even if it rolls smoothly from one point to the next. Some moments are still lifes, instead of reels. Sometimes life moves at it's very own heartbreaking pace.
And sometimes water that cools and draws them closer and closer together for even just a moment more, is the same water that drags and pulls them apart, the same water that a duck swims in, and the same water that a man looks upon and sees both finality and possibility.
It's almost too much to hope for, even as they cling to the hope and the possibility that maybe once again, water can bring them closer and closer together, instead of being the mountain that pulls them apart. If only, the cool water that duck feet glide through now, is the cool water that soothes two dancers that for a moment are together against it all and despite it all.
One who has to give up dance for water, had to give up a dream for someone else to have his dreams and his life back, is the same who chose the option that would make her a duck once more.
And another who gave up dance, in order to work at making her dreams possible once more. He gave up dance in order to be a writer, working tirelessly for the solution that would lead to the duck's upmost happiness, the very happiness that being near him, he gifted her, without knowing.
One sacrifice begot another sacrifice, and yet hope still draws them close, close as the water is to the lake, and maybe one day that water just might bring the two together for another dance, give them a chance to let the current brush alongside dancers, with hearts bound together.
