Breathing Mountains

The foam atop these liquid mountains freezes

as it is whipped into the aubergine evening.

The raft is coated in icy spray.

With the bindings so frayed, it seems that the ice is the primary force holding

these boards together. 

I've eaten nothing but gnawed off fingernails for weeks. 

You are the petulant sun, in turns irate or lugubrious;

alternating between scorching heat

and gelid downpours.

Recently it has been the latter. 

I prefer the numbness to the burns.

Every inch of my skin is needled with splinters, reddened

and oozing. Broken. Inflamed.

Piss-poor navigation, no one's fault but my own, has left me here,

desperately holding onto this shifting mass of roughened wood.

I have refused to give up and sink beneath the waves.

But now you have sunk below the horizon.

Before there was anger or disappointment.

Now there is nothing.

Nothing but the b***h moon relaying your sentiments across continents

of bullshit. 

I can no longer see the delineation between raft and endless deep.

But that line holds no significance now.

In time, I'll forget what I am holding on to.

The creatures beneath me seem so inviting --

I suppose I should join them in the brine.