A lesson, am I, as my feet sweep atop the whispering water. Eyes are watching me.
Your eyes are watching me.
"Tricks."
My mouth curls into a smile.
"And for my own amusement, perhaps?" I reply, "I've only recently felt your eyes."
"Then, how," you ask, "does such one see to such a task with a step anchored by despondence?"
"I am light," I respond, "A mere feather on this pond. I drift as a dove with the currents of air. I stand above of what sinks you. I stand above despair."
"Poetry," you say. The bitterness that leaks through your every pore could turn this puddle to ice.
"It's tragedy that gives in to such a thing. My march is light with it. The apprehension to which you cling, it only locks you in a safe house. Avoiding difficulties will bring you no lesson." Echoes melt the word. Lesson.
Lesson, lesson, lesson.
"You abuse a placebo."
The words seep into me. The meaning mutilates the phrase in its beauty.
"...And yet it sings to me," I say to nobody, "A placebo I may abuse, but it is I who creates ripples on the surface where my pacing feet pass. It's me who speaks with fluency."
My eyes seek out the moon.
"If a false drug is what woos me, I care not of its details. I care not of sugar or cyanide. I stand high above the water's floor, high above what ails you."
You are gone as I look back, and looking back on looking back; I am not sure whether you were a passing wind in my imagination or the solid ground which I found to be under my feet.
