My Bikini.

Some things are impossible to do when one is not mired in a solid state of love. Today I feel mired, welded, the victim of chemical processes involving the recent application of heat. Lava cooling on the side of a mountain or on a doomed crash course with the pacific. I am cooling on the outside. Hardening. But the inside is caramel, fudge, a necessary creamy filling, fuel for my sickly, sticky, adolescent prose. But prose is necessary in matters of mire. Mire is a word that deserves to be rhymed. Dissected. Mocked. Ignored. Spat upon. It keeps the joints oiled. It adorns the sadness I feel standing on the cliff yet again. Prose is my bikini. My sunscreen. My coconut oil. About to dive off again, to fall, to hit, to swim, to tire and tread, to gasp for breath. And it's not all that I dread. It's not all that which keeps me crying to the blue sky and the Sun God. It's the inevitable climb back up to where I am right now after the fall, the slap, the tickle, the submersion, that makes twist and turn. I could fall slowly for you. As if the air were made of marshmallows. I could slide into love with you, over an excruciating period of time. You, who have always been there, smoldering on the periphery. I am equal parts terrified and excited by you. Warm in the center, toes on the edge, a beacon, a leap, oblivion.