of water,
its gendered lineages occupying the body both home and away, the inescapable myth of always
again and again until forever,
or at least until the tears stop
and i no longer long to catch your glance
on the street unexpectedly on purpose 

what would it feel like to hold your hand in a way that meant something more than maybe? 

of water,
its secret passages underground
only heard by the wanting listener
the ear that craves not noise but silence, stillness
just a little bit of nothing to settle the
on and on and on and on of this inside feeling
this too much knot that unfurls and refurls that fills more than it empties 

what if it’s the maybe that i’m attracted to? 

of water,
its annoying necessity, an absolute
that every cell in every body calls for, sustenance more, more, more, more, its curse binding all life this life, my life, and maybe not yours
for you, maybe the water is nurturing
but me, i am the flood, awash. 

what happens when it settles inside, is there space amongst the knots and their perpetual furling and all the love i already had?