I imagine a lifeboat floating my way. It would surely have a light if it were to travel through this thick, vast blackness. The light would flicker off the tips of the mulling waves, reach my eyes, and silently whisper, "You're safe."
My numb body and hopeless eyes strain to catch a glimpse of he who operates the boat. It has to be a he; I've never sacrificed enough for a she to owe me a rescue from such an ominous, dark sea. Choking on that which keeps me afloat, I draw in a water-ridden breath and sputter, "Who's there?"
No answer.
It feels good to relax, but with each tense muscle eased the sea pulls my toes down to the deep. I've always loved the water. I guess it's only fitting that this crime of passion be committed by something so near to my person.
He’s close. The light shines through my eyes and illuminates what little yearning I have to stay afloat. Perhaps the security of the boat will be enough to keep my intrigue with dim waters at bay. Or perhaps I only desire my hand to be held as I am lowered.
I feel the reaper’s piercing stare, yet I am complacent. Am I confused or just sick, twisted, and masochistic?
No answer.
Both ores at rest, the boat stalls. The ripples in the water beckon my chin to rise. The boat tilts as he leans over the edge. The silence dissipates as his warm breath utters my name. He willingly offers his hand. I could be safe.
No answer.
