With each slow breath I wonder when
this boundary might collapse and I
sink into you, our surface tension
broken. Fixed between the depths
and sky, I spar with my reflection,
certain it grows slower, merges
into liquid, formless, dark
beneath me. Will some breeze-born ripple,
errant breath, disturb our balance,
and I disappear at last?
This shimmering of surfaces,
illusion of solidity,
disintegrates beneath my feet.
Step forward; step and do not sink.
Stephen Brooke ©2019