the act of unclenching a fist is far more difficult than grasping onto something.
after a while, your hand becomes accustomed to a firm grip, but when the time comes for you to let go, the fingers feel brittle, the wrist refuses, the palm is glossy with sweat, and there is pain.
your body was for me the staggered line between ocean and land. every time your tide became swollen, my pores drunk your cool saltiness. it is difficult to escape a rhythm such as the one of the sea. back and forth, we cradled ourselves while on the bed of the ocean floor, both our hearts pulsed slowly, steadily, sitting amidst the coral and the algae that swayed in time with the soft thudding.
