pining for the rond de jambe.

it's simple, really. it's not hard.

i had a moment today. it was a missing moment.
you know, those moments where you just feel like something is missing?

now, forgive me for becoming absurdly abstract.


i saw a picture tonight; i saw a picture in my mind of that charming little sea: the charming sea of blissful confusion. i'm not sure if i am seduced by that phrase because of the way the consonants participate in a series of playful banter, back and forth, or it's just... true.

in my brain's canvas, the salt water was pink. the sky, a burnt orange, and i was not alone. aftertaste mentha sparkled my tongue and i somehow forgot what the rain felt like. i was swimming in circles. they were bewitching little things, beckoning me to fall victim to the way they said goodnight. i felt my eyes begin to abate, like carmen's final curtain! closing my eyes in salt water has never tasted so sweet. admitting defeat--submitting to the takeover of the strange sea that now possessed me--i began to drown. my splash kicking had transformed into repeated rond de jambes, forcing my swim into a dozen ballets. any sort of mutterance that i could pronounce would may as well be better served by mozart's taste of death. was i feeling it now upon my own lips? unlike anything of this earth, claims he. well yes, that is the fondness i pine for.

though years later, i can't understand how i sunk so low. to willingly tie a tag to my wrist and float to the bottom of that ocean. i must have been sixteen. sixteen and smitten by a thought that the sea was real and blissful.

but here i am, cold and dry. and still preferring the former.