Facedown Until the Bubbles Stop

I sing, thru roaring swallows. 

Gulping grains under the sound of gulls, 

Sifting glass into a slurried salt. 

Piercing - my trachea of drought. 

Coughed up: of its sun-bathed blemish, 

Scratching shells against esophagus. 

For if your love is what I must choose. . . 

Then below I go, to touch the bottom. 

As hugging silt holds more success, 

Than navigating the oceans of your heart. 

Eyes pried in blue, 

Carbon expulsed, 

These fluttering palpitations 

Breeching breath: to break away mourning 

Face down until the bubbles stop