Soup

When I look out at the sea, though, with its majestic foyer of blue-green waves that runs throughout the panorama, I almost fall off from the crust that locks my toes down and my breath breaks into ice before I need to cough it up. It’s like blood gushes everywhere and my seams fall apart till each crevice of my body falls into the sea. I can feel the soles of my feet tingle with the salt, and my eyes burn as I bask in the midnight moonlight. My watery stutters are closing in on me and summoning me further into the sixty seconds before it is actually a minute after twelve. My lonely lips sting with delight as I get to sip the debris of mermaid songs, and my chest heaves with my limbs and my limbs crawl through the dark blue sweaters knitted together around the swollen statue of me. I am a phone call at 1.38 in the morning in between an interlude of cookie bites and coffee, coffee warmth. My tongue tangles in the salt, my gums bleed in effort. My teeth dance in harmony. The juxtaposition of my skin and of the ivory light of the goddess that floats on the bellies of my friendly clouds rises in comparison. My lungs are a choo-choo train. My eyes are struggling men looking for their train to France. I clamber on wave after wave, I reap my goddess’ light. A warmth not too far from those early morning coffees steels my hands and my feet, crumbles the ice down to my core from there. I am a sudden conundrum within very little time; I think I trouble all those people watching in the sidelines! I am coming back there, my dearest – that is what I say. I talk to this girl in a sunny dress, her hair a surprising combo of lovely dawn and mesmerizing sunset. I gulp with difficulty before the walls till I find my footing on hangers and hangers of winter clothing. Winter? It isn’t here yet, ma’am, I say. I am caught off guard when a merman rises from the sea and steals my feet. I have lost balance, I am slipping from my dear consciousness, I am soaring away from the cookie bites and coffee till I am not a 1.38 phone call. I am a house, this is my house. I am in a world of sea, finally. I can breathe without irritating my neighbors with a cough of ice and nothing but contemptible ice. I am rusting into water, huffing and puffing into salty sea. My eyes are the sea and my feet are the sand, and the corals, and the land. I am going to France, and I will bring you there… maybe? Maybe.