At the bottom of a pool ringed with high blades of brown grass,
I met my bare-legged love,
the one with the slender fingers and the starfish eyes.
"What is it like, drowning?" I asked,
removing her moonstone ring.
My thinking at the time was to restore her entire,
from a detail.
If I set out her favorite soaps,
would not her fingertips appear, to take them?
Would not her arm follow, serpentine, impossible?
Would I not sleep with her again that very night,
my returned heart,
my conjured desire?
The moonstone ring had tiny lizards traversing the band,
the stone itself so pale,
floating to one side in a blue morning sky
as I did in the pool,
suffocating on my very urgency to have her back.
"Dial it down," she said to me, filling her sorrowful, disembodied voice
with her familiar lazy patois.
The stars dragged themselves, too bright, over our heads
and then melted like pangs of conscience
or fading scars,
reducing us to ripples, my love and I,
spreading away from each other, vanishing, in spite of ourselves.
Written using some words from a list. Thank you, Jasminecalyx.
Linked with Carry On Tuesday #186, where I failed to follow the rules.