Water bends over the edge toward the next thing in its path, the way my man gets on a plane and flies to Boise. Absence: a kind of free fall.
No longer able to hold tight, to touch lips, time and space fill the days and nights. An interjection of sky between us takes the watery way our lives flow together and turns everything white.
He tells me white water is the most dangerous kind. A body can no longer float in turbid water, the base of a waterfall being the easiest place to drown. He says you have to crawl along the bottom out to where it clears.
Bubbles gradually rise toward Wednesday, when he returns.