She drowned. Her ashen corpse, stubbed out, smoking; empty eyes reaching out from the deep.
He tried. Their pleas to gods remains unspoken, just like the love they hoped to keep.
She drowned.
In him, in them, in time, in pain. The flame went out, at the witching hour. She groped for him, his soul, in vain; her breathing shallow, heartbeat louder.
He tried.
Feeling the remainder of her warmth, he felt relief, then guilt, then nothing. He thought of stories, which remained untold, her lines, her smell, but just in passing.
They tried.
To swim, to paddle, float. Her gripping him, his heart in fear. Rebelling against the stagnant, torpid bog, then she let go and he was free.
Gaya Ink 