Summer Lake. Drowning, you read somewhere, is surprisingly quiet. Not like movies, so much tragic thrashing, more like all the words you’ve ever learnt whispered through paralyzed lips back into the cosmos’ liquid lexicon & no one hears your final sinking thought which is how damned sorry you are. About all of it. They toss the beach ball on the cottage lawn, the docked lovers chase & tickle each other, she’s shouting ‘stop it’ but from your hushed devolving watery portal you can tell she doesn’t really mean stop, wishes the chase carried on until one of them collapses from laughter. And you, out there, a final bubble – soundless ‘o’.  

Published On: July 1, 2018
Permanent Location: http://www.forgetmagazine.com/070118b.htm