(Listen as you read for a fuller experience.)
I drift away from the shoreline, letting the tame waves draw me further and further away with each gentle rise and fall.
I am facing the shore and all I have left behind: the high buildings, the changing lights, the car horns and the blaring music, the people streaming over concrete, stopping on corners, briskly crossing the middle of streets.
I have left you there, in the city. You stayed ashore. I asked you to come with me, into the darkness of the cold of the water at night, but you stood still and waved your hand “good-bye.”
Now there’s more and more water and darkness growing between us. I see your form that’s been the light of my life grow smaller and smaller as I float away. I can see your steady, anchoring hand still waving.
I continue drifting and look away from your diminishing figure to the scene behind you. I am far from the shore now, but the buildings still look tall. The lights blend together but their reflection gleams in the water around me. I can’t distinguish the cars, but I can hear their horns, their rushing into the woven streets.
I don’t know what I will miss more, you or the city. In that skyline that meets definite, full streets below there was endless possibility. In your firm, faithful form there was everything I ever wanted. Would I again find endless possibility and everything I ever wanted if I swam back to you now? Maybe their existence fades as I float away, none of us never to return.