What Can I Tell You

What can I tell you, old friend, having carried myself here to be in your company, to feel your quiet, the still paused on your waters as if you were listening out for me. You must be tired of waiting for a word, a sound, something to tell you I'm here. As I did yesterday and the days before, I have come to this place, closed, locked shut in this terrible silence that has escaped from the hellish chambers of my sleep and taken up home in the wakened me. I wander the hours looking for what I've lost, those things now repossessed and sunk beneath a thick impenetrable dark, lying fathoms deep, unreachable. So again I have come to be bathed in your waters and enter the sacred spaces gathered here. Feel my dumb fingers desperately holding onto your lapping reach. Heal me, take my silence and disperse it on the broad back of your tides, wash my darkness out to sea.