Water Signs

You turn your back to me as you fall asleep. We disentangle. I watch the swells of your breathing in the faint moonlight. The deep rise and fall of your foothills. I wish you were still awake.

But you are long gone. Dreaming of boats. A symptom of your compulsion to leave. A metaphor for your departure. I picture you looking to the stars. Celestial navigation. I fall asleep tracing constellations onto the moles on your back with my fingertip.

Distance

When the rest of the house goes to sleep, I’ll sneak out from my ground floor window, grabbing the shovel from the garage and begin to dig. I’ll pick the spot right behind the overgrown Angsana in the front garden, hidden from the view of the house but well lit from the streetlights on the other side of the fence. At first I’ll have to use the shovel to chop and cleave through the surface roots. Flinging moss and tangled vines all over as I carve my way through, trying to reach the dirt below. The roots will bleed crimson sap, spraying as if from an open wound all over my face and clothes,  I’ll look like a deranged murderer. That first night, when I reach soil, I’ll finally get to sleep.

For nights I’ll dig through worms and roots and bones and dirt until my head is beneath the ground. The humid air will make me sweat as I labour. I’ll find an old battery powered fan in the garage and take it down with me; it’ll hum as it cools me down. I’ll keep digging every night, until climbing out becomes too precarious and I’ll have to sleep in the hole. The soil will have turned to clay; soft enough to use as a pillow.

When, nights later, I hit rock, my shovel will break. I’ll need to upgrade to a more suitable tool before I can continue. With nothing to do I’ll be restless all night, idly waiting for 9 in the morning so I can go to HardwareCity. The blisters on my hands will have turned to callouses and they’ll be itching, itching to dig. I’ll rush to the shop first thing in the morning and buy the most well built pick I can find. That night, now with my sturdy pickaxe, I’ll dig deeper, or rather mine deeper, through the crust. I’ll smash through limestone and adamellite, through granite and quartz; I wont bother going up to the surface anymore. The heat from the air above wont be able reach me now, the layers of rock will be cool to touch.

One night I’ll burst through into a cavern. I’ll stand, surrounded by hollow darkness; lost. I’ll light the torch on my iPhone and start searching for a route; the only direction is down, below the crust. There will be no night or day anymore. I’ll wander the caves for an eternity, descending through the stalagmites and stalactites. Crawling through claustrophobic gaps, manoeuvring down subsurface formations. Drinking water only from the condensation on the walls and eating the sparse moss on the cavern floor for nourishment. My phone battery wont last long enough, and I will suddenly be consumed by darkness. Then, I’ll put my hand to the walls, feeling out the paths that lead me deeper, precariously stepping towards the unknown.

I’ll trip and fall into a subterranean river, and let the freezing water carry me; it has to be flowing downward after all. It’ll eventually bring me to an expanse, with prehistoric ferns and pterodactyls flying. An underground jungle written by Jules Verne. Others would be in awe but I can’t stop here; I wont have reached my destination. I’ll duck through brontosaurus legs and cycad trunks until I find where the downward caverns start again, and I’ll go deeper still. My path will be illuminated by glowing fungus and flickering floating spores; shining like lights on an airstrip, guiding my descent. I’ll keep going until the tunnels stop altogether; where I’ll take my pickaxe and begin mining again.

Then I’ll make my way through the mantle. The walls will be red hot so I’ll tie my T-shirt to my head to stop the sweat from getting in my eyes. The deeper I get the hotter it will be. By the time I reach the core, the heat will be unbearable, my skin will be burning up, my whole body on fire. And then I’ll see you; by then you should have arrived here too. We’ll swim through the magma to meet in the Centre of the Earth and hold hands as we dissolve.

Close

I wake up in a field of barley. Golden stalks swinging gently in the wind. The sky is untarnished with clouds, the sun shines undisturbed. I’m not sure where I am. But I’m on my feet and I’m moving. Dust kicks up as I walk, crickets stop their symphony and leap away with every step I take. I see a row of trees along the edge of the field, I hear the trickle of water underneath their shady branches.

I’m walking alongside the stream now. Following the tree line. I feel very alone. The stream is widening, the water slows down and spreads. The banks burst with reeds and sand. Mating dragonflies dance, diving to catch hatching mosquitos from the surface of the water. The stream is a river now. I feel very tired. I sit down on the trunk of a fallen tree, its branches hanging in the water, dragging in the current.

A frog jumps away from my feet into the river. I must have startled it. It starts swimming across to the other side. It doesn’t see the water-snake until its less than an inch away. It tries kicking it away with its back legs. The snake darts closer. The frog dives down. It’s too late. The snake winds around its body. The frog struggles to get free. The snake tightens. The frog twists. It’s getting loose. The snake is unrelenting. It bites the frog’s front leg, holding it in place. The snake tightens again. The frog goes still.

I wake up to you shaking me. You ask if I’m alright. You say I was squeezing you so hard you couldn’t breathe. You’ve turned the bed lamp on. I start to tell you about my dream. You laugh about the field of barley, isn’t that from a Sting song? I finish telling you about my dream. You compare yourself to the frog. Mr Frog and Miss Snake. You croak and get up to make us coffees.

We’re still lying in bed. With your head on my chest. Your hot breath sweeps over me. Your hand traces my waist. You’re everywhere. Not a man but a liquid. Soaking into my every pore. Covering every inch of me. Your hand moves down. Your tracing is taking another route. It sparks something. I whisper. I want you.

Your head is in between my legs. You know how hard it is for me to finish. I told you it was a side-effect our first time. I remember you smiling. Taking it as a challenge. I know you’re smiling just the same now. My hand is in your hair. My eyes are closed. I feel very close. I’m so close. You stop for just a second and the rising tide pulls back. You start again but I know there’s no point. I’m sorry. I pull you up. I’m sorry. You kiss me and tell me it’s alright.