Watercolor Wash

The sky looked like a watercolor wash last night when we fled to the water. I say fled because I was at my most unbearably dark dark side darkest. I was tempted to walk in the water in my dress a dress I’d knotted at my knees as it’s long too long a sack a bag to hold a ghost with brick-red flowers. To be told of optimism means to be shamed because where that lies is as empty as what’s under a dress and as easily found as the sand underneath, the bottom of the ocean floor were I to float out beyond the break my dress ballooned up my hair ropes. Meaning there is none. No bottom, at least reachable. But

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