Float

Ears submerged in the water, seashell-quiet, belly-up.  On the other side of the world, the sky is different, somehow, full of faint constellations you've never seen, may not see, ever again. Think of it: the evening is warm, the sky stars and trees are the silent arc just outside your eyes, the water gently bobbing at the sides of your face, nearing the edges of your eyes. Float, like you have no body. Like a child might, before the body's in stasis, before we grow used to it. We grow used to our bodies, like the creaks in the stairs of your house, the soft pattern of noise they'd make every morning. The groan of certain steps in the winter time.

Float like this, not feeling your body, because you won't have to recall anything, if you forget this body now.  Float like the sky and the water and children do, free as wild storms, things without eyes.

We grow older, and want to be touched, falling back into our bodies, anchors in the silt.