little blob, you've got just enough:
mass for the receding tide to be unable to take you back to the sea
buoyancy to float in the little divet on the beach you're holed up in
tentacle length and clarity of membrane to attract old and young, plus random dogs
moisture to let the sand stick to you wetly, dehydrating you slowly as the sun beats down
life left that you're still pulsing slowly, mesmerizingly, angrily
sting to make life really, really miserable for awhile if I touch you.
I wonder if all your little blob friends you got separated from are emitting a song of sorrow for you, or gifting the water with a commemorative stinging symphony of electric impulses lighting up the sea as they float away.
No comments:
Post a Comment