It feels like I have once known the inside of you, the inside of you that has always been an ocean.
Maybe you came from me.
Maybe you swim in this water of mine as if it is your home, as if you are chasing that chord of water connected to your living and to your survival.
All I want to be in is the thick, deep and blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.
In the movement of the waves, in the roots of that one arbutus tree that our tired and shared feet climbed through, that pushed us into those familiar ebbs and flows.
Someone here, you or I, will always drink this water.
Maybe you know it to be more familiar than I do.
I think you remember the arbutus and the cracking branches and the slippery rocks and the cascading waves, just as you remember these pipes and the glasses that are the same as they always were, and even the breaking of the ice that will happen once it melts.
Your arms have rivers and streams in them and they hold mine, they hold my lakes and my every ripple and frequency.
The movements of our oceans meet in the same way, they flow together as if to remember the arbutus tree and what came before and maybe even those deep dark waters of the Pacific Ocean that we came to know to mean our world.
All I want to be in is the coldness of the night, underneath the shadow of a brick building with the staircase where the people drink.
To go into this darkness, in search of something to warm my belly and put me to sleep.
To follow the streetlights until they take me to this place that feels like the water.
I drink your water late into the night and I see everything.
The arms like the oceans, on those coasts and the inland rivers and the lakes my home hits upon, they know me.
They already know where my own movements will take me.
It is only on the shores of the sea and on the banks of the rivers and maybe in small little ponds that I can dip myself into this feeling of being right where I need to be.
Where my movements are organized by mine and yours together that were brought about by our bodies of water.
And in this water I can flow and let myself be guided by wind or some magnetic force, just as I can let the water of this place encompass me and carry me as I walk in the late hours of the day.
Maybe this place calls to me like the waves of the sea, like the pebbles in the river invite me.
Maybe it too already knows me, and maybe you have taught it to engulf me and wrap itself around my shape.
Those streets that have your systems of water beneath them want to know me.
And I know you as you know me.
I know where your waters are emptied out and how they fill up once more. I know the pockets that are deeper and the ones that are shallow, that are swimmable.
Maybe it is the arbutus tree that our feet dragged us through, or maybe it is your arms and our ponds and streams and lakes, or the staircases in the cold night, or even the streets you taught to know me, that are the waters that have always lived within me.
All I know is I am a part of your oceans, and your arms want to hold me close and smother me until I am whole again.
My waters drink yours, finding the inside of you again.
