I almost thanked you for teaching me something about survival back there, but then I remembered that the ocean never handed me the gift of swimming. I gave it to myself.
//Y.Z., what i forgot to remember
1. You were the sea and I had grown gills to accommodate you.
(Your absence left me gasping in toxic air, grasping uselessly towards the waning tide.)
2. You were the rain and I had sprouted upward branches, always reaching up towards you.
(The loss of you reminded me that I had grown roots, too, and could only remain where you had left me.)
3. You were the heavens and I had hollowed out my bones to stay afloat, surrounded by you.
(The gloom you left behind was suffocating, blinding, and complete.)
3. My hollowed out bones keep me afloat, my voice rising up into the sky, no matter the storms that rained down. (The sky does not hold me up, after all; it is my own beating wings that carry me forward.)
2. The roots keep me grounded, no matter how the wind howls; my branches sprout new life and bring it, too. (The rain passes and I realize that it is the sun, not the torrential fall, that my leaves spring up towards.)
1. The gills and tail recede, legs sprout forth; air strengthens me, emboldens me as I leap forward and away. (The sea is not so vast or final, after all, nor a sea at all; it is only a lake and I can swim in it and leave it as I please.)
Navel Gazing 