at the pit of your stomach
your heart
sinks,
like a rock
as the doubts--
the thick, sticky,
quicksand-like
pool
of anxieties
climb its way up
the sides
engulfing
like water to a sinking ship
a tightness in the back of your throat
a silence
that
lingers
because there's nothing they could say
nothing you could say
that would convince
either
of you
otherwise
and as your sinking heart,
your pride, your rationale,
bubbles over
under the mass
of insecurities
and hurts
that right now--
no one
wants
to hear
words toss
in the air,
splashing
its peppermint
loop
next to your
submerged
atlantis
rocking
the wooden door,
you've long since
given up on
with nothing else--
hold onto it
"hope
floats"
it adamantly
claims,
a suggestion
that couldn't be
more appropriate
and yet
leaves you stubborn
and incredulous
You're asking me
to walk
on water
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