Did you think the sea bed was the Arctic? A cold place sheeted in the luminescence searing upon the sand? A place where the ice melts to settle in sugared layers of frosting, congealing clouds?
Streets away from the core, simmering, ebullient, fired by the gun. Warm as the socks that are thrown into the summer clouds to fetch your daydreams.
Lying here with the barnacles enclosing you until the specks of light mottling your darkness disappear. How heavy? As heavy as the wind that throws you into unwanted arms and buckles your knees to pavement and blood.
The octopus swallowing your skin and your nightmares, the coral fed through sieves lined with despair, blinking neon, thrashing.
Rocks are silent, they let the waves lick them, cut them, wash them away into timeless currents that sail through fairytale and nothingness. They are not steadfast, honest. It is better to lean on the wind that shall carry you with menacing timidity, than settle on the stone that cares only for algae and coral tiaras and pennies wished into oblivion.