To the Shore

There is no point searching for answers in the surfaces of lakes. But still I return, day after day, to the shore from which you disappeared. Sitting at the base of your favourite tree with the branches snapping beneath me, I listen to clues in the sound of the water lapping. Maybe I’ll find you in the cracked reflections of the sky. On a still day I see a more complete picture, like static clearing on a TV screen. Fissures open in brief flashes and I catch glimpses of the light, but it is never enough. The window closes as soon as I try to concentrate on the empty space.

You told me once that the opening means nothing without the surrounding walls, but I can’t help falling into old habits. There is still hope as long as I keep coming back. Building walls and holding you in my mind. I whisper your name over and over into the lonely silence, but the birds are the only ones to respond. One day I’m sure I hear voices in the rustling of trees.

Sometimes in my dreams I find my way back to you, but by the time I wake up the puzzle pieces have fallen back apart. No one wants to hear about other worlds. They are happier living on the land where the sky is bolted shut. But it's too late for me; my shape has already shifted. Returning to the water is better than digging holes. There is still hope as long as I see pictures in the surface and feel your presence in the roots.