The Glass Boat

Today, I found myself thinking of you, of your smile, and I felt warm, which is foolish on my part because I don’t even know you.

But I know this feeling– this schoolgirl love, this not-so innocent dread of being on a rickety boat with a glass bottom.  You can see through it, down into the black depths of the ocean where the ship had once been sunk.  The boat floats along the surface of little pieces of ice, like unwanted, unused marble, dented and hacked away at.  The warmth does not last for long because I know, I am aware.  I am aware that it is you and me on this boat: me bound, immobile, staring helplessly up at you, waiting for you to make your move.  Step hard enough, and the glass–the sheer lens– lets in my death.  And while you can swim to safety or hop onto another waiting boat, I will feel the chill of the ice water, squeezing the air out of my lungs.

Watching you leave before I close my eyes and succumb to my inevitable murky grave.

Please watch your step.  Fragile surface.