Waltzing out the door.

The distance is growing beyond the measurement of meters or miles; swelling like the ankles of my pregnant sister; expanding like the shoreline at high tide and washing me back out to sea. Pacing around on the ocean's cold floor, sinking up to my ankles; to my knees; to my armpits; getting in over my head because I have the time to kill and someone to consume it. I'd throw up my arms to twelve o'clock and celebrating your celebration but I'm not certain you're celebrating at all. It might be mourning come morning with the birds chirping outside a bedroom window that isn't yours as your naked skin sticks to and pulls at the sweat soaked sheets of reckless abandon. Throw caution to the wind; throw emotion over your shoulder and give in to your inhibitions just don't give up. Make sure that the made men bar patrons who surround you like schooled fish aren't swarming but swooning, and then don't let go. Bite your bottom lip in reservation, in memory of days that slipped between our knotted fingers never to come up again even though I have been willing its resurrection. Now I know that it takes two to tango but I'm afraid that you're waltzing out the door.