so let’s say i ride this giant seahorse into the ocean… i will cross paths with a red balloon which reminds me of the city where i was born and it will lilt and bob over the waves so whimsically that there will be no way for me to develop my gills. and, after that --
the waters’ wills cannot do much to convince me of my being seaworthy and this giant seahorse will sense something amiss and throw me as soon as i loose my grip. not much for bridles, not much for sympathy, this giant seahorse whinnies and grimaces. he says, “i wanted to have your children.”
i will be able to catch the sun, in a fraction of a second, glowing on the other side of that red balloon, so i will curse myself for ever having laid eyes on the mirror-ball ocean, for being so easily tempted by gigantic curlicue hippocampus, for screaming jubilant into each crest however many hundreds of thousands of fathoms it took me from land:
there are no red balloons, under there and no cities to be born in. there is no sun and no waves upon which it could dance. were i to climb aback and ride this giant seahorse into the ocean, i would not be able to say goodbye.