Summer, Divorce, Water, etc.

My professors would have termed it intersitial. A point between the surface and the depths, catching my breath as it escaped its chambers forming a burst of bubbles that stung more than the chlorine. I dove right in today. I didn’t hesitate, for the shock of the cold or the wind threatening my bare, wet skin. I didn’t hesitate.

I braced my feet on the rocks and pushed, shoved myself forward. I thought I’d be moving faster, but that’s always the case. I wasn’t falling, or flailing, or breathing even. I was floating. My tangled hair suspended in a crown around my head.  There was silence, I felt beautiful. My eyelids closed, but not tightly. I let every limb go limp, numb, like I’ve only felt a few nights in my life. My arms raised above my head like an involuntary surrender. Something tight wrapped itself around my throat. I’d have to breathe soon, and I dreaded it. I dread choosing sides these days. I knew it was from the volume of cigarettes that have been accumulating in gutters and freeways. I haven’t breathed easily in years.

With my feet on the rough floor I pushed toward the sun, which should’ve felt more dramatic. I choked on the air. The quiet beauty stuck in the space between the bottom and me. This home will be a broken one soon.  Drops of water slide down my back, making maps someone will use their finger tips to trace. And I’ll let them, because between the bottom and where I stand there’s that place where my breath doesn’t matter, and I don’t have to choose which side to take. And it feels like the worst pain and most intense pleasure I’ve ever felt. Nicotine burning holes in my lungs, and a pair of eyes burning their way into mine.