It is or may as well be without an amazing gold-yellow start to the day...it is the lack of breath to fog a winter's exhale. It is the tightening of the throat, it is a cold grip.
It is the submersion in ink-black water, damn near freezing, plunging beneath oil-slick waves, and no sense of direction, no sense of depth. Treading coldly beneath the surface with heavy arms and weighted shoes.
There is a reluctance to let go. A hand falling to the side after a wave that went unseen. It is the last glimpse of you, perhaps the slightest detail...a tendril of hair, an echo of a step. It is a blur, this photograph smeared and curled at the edges...under-exposed. It is a crumpled bit of paper that had your name scrawled on it, now collapsed and cart-wheeling down an alley. It is a clump of gray sooty snow, left in a shadow and unmelting. This cold that I cannot shake. This weight against me.
There is a regret to let out. A hand once clasped that I should have held for one more moment, even just one more second. To have held a measurement of time, and tattooed that image...no, branded that image into me. Torched, touched...permanently.
There is a return to let play out. A wondering. A perhaps. A potential. It is as though gold lint from an afternoon sky slowly penetrated the darkened waters and drew my stare. As you once did. And slowly felt the cold remove itself and return with a gradual warmth that allowed me to take a moment to move. To push.
To breach the surface and find myself in an afternoon...clothes clinging, hair soaked but the chance to say your name out loud and have it fall upon you. Not a shout, maybe a whisper...near an ear so close that only you could hear it.
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