it's not much

she used to tell me, in her god-voice, that it would always be just a puddle-jump away. and tonight, as i stood staring up at rain clouds in a world that was the opposite of on fire, i understood what she had always been trying to tell me. between me and my car, me and my radio, me and my warm bed, was a ferocious, man-eating, black-as-asphalt puddle.

lines are written to be spoken.

we're all only sailors on an upside-down sea
where we'll all land is a mystery to me
only that there will be hope
and something to taste
and monsters to wrestle
and chances to take.