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Small, spangled creature, whose seas once flickered with sunlight and fins, why did you ever swim in my coke bottle only to arrive belly-up? Beyond normal snatches of comprehension, my mind can't grasp the meaning of your stone-like mass in my beverage holder.
Yesterday's boom of gin and tonic seems to have become a faded morning of glory. Were your effervescent moments also squandered? Had there been too much tilt in your grand glass garden?
Baby carp, wake up and dance your fishy dance for me. The weed I won was not, in any way, near your aqua palace. Your watercourse glistened only from the amendment of vermouth, and then only by a precious drop at a time.
Granted, during my cosmic moments, I ceased to guard your puppy-like struggle. I stopped defending your clear fortress. But friend, face facts; it's impossible for you to swim through glass. Notwithstanding, if you were to succeed, my best chemical magic could not have transformed you into an air breather. Like me, you would have asphyxiated in the abundance of my friend's alleged goodness.
Besides, last night's partner was no marine wonder. Not only did he amend your world with 100 proof, but he also tweaked my spirits. My new truth has to become a lot more about kelp and a lot less about vodka.
Flesh and sinew has a long punt before it will ever surpass waking in water. Waves belie men's bones and remind us of what we ought not to have done. It's better that you experimented less. At least the toilet bowl's rim was clean.
Lifeguard ambition is overrated, as are most scenes that bring us nose-up against giant moments. Regardless of that fact, don't fret bubble boy. In spite of everything, we swimming-challenged persons, us characters that are ordinarily awed and daunted by undercurrent, have been known to survive.
Civilians can confront beaches and worse and live to the next morning. The size and speed of nocturnal green walls no longer have to shock or shock or stymie. I just wish he hadn't left so quickly.
It's embarrassing to wash up in front of bikinis and skin, without board, or fitted suit. The problem is not one of gilded cover, but of words. Being able to rule social waters makes no difference, sometimes.
When you're bruised and naked, before your constituency, it's upsetting. Sure, such times make it easy to grasp mistakes, but all of that sudden air and water has the power to stop psychic liberation. Libations jail us and turn our ambitions impotent.
Some yield. I've tried. One day, a date will wake up near me, smiling. Maybe I'll establish a relationship. That ocean's wider than your attitude and mine combined and deeper than any propriety. Only seagulls and such jetsam, as comes with the tide, are hungry enough to hurt good intentions.
So, for now, get a towel or find your trunks. Buy a new surf-sling. Apologize. Those other skimpily clad partiers never wanted your subjugation. They couldn't care less if you just float. Get a life.
KJ Hannah Greenberg and her hibernaculum of imaginary hedgehogs devotes their eclectic writing to lovers of slipstream fiction and to oboe players who never got past the second orchestral chair. Currently, they are editing their newest novel, Ten Kilo and One Million, a story in which the protagonist's friends include: a horse whisperer-eating python, an inventor of peanut butter and jelly sushi, and a woman obsessed with painting New England landscapes on leather hand bags.