What the Water Took


In the early morning hours where the sky
is still dark and my house
lays quiet, I hear snippets of your voice.
It sounds like running water, waves
colliding with cement pillars through
radio static. I cannot piece them
together.
They are two large forces unapologetically existing,
just existing too close.
The same way your body existed a little too close to a bridge.
And water.
In reality I am not sure if the bridge is over a lake,
or part of an ocean.
I do not know where your soul left your body, I just know that
you are not alive anymore. Your voice does not exist
outside of my memory. My boyfriend
told me that memories are different every time we recall them.
Chris, I fear I do not remember you completely
I'm afraid I lost you in the water,
that you are fading from my memory going somewhere I cannot find you.
I want the water to give back what it stole from me.
She just looked too beautiful not to fall into.

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