Sense memory of peach blossoms.
Underneath the film of the lake.
Lays another misfit memory.
More the taste than the scent.
The sweat on her neck.
The sweet intoxication of her pulse under my fingertips.
Just below the surface.
Reaching out in fine phantomy tendrils
to tickle and tantalise
as she drifts
listlessly sinks
like an autumn leaf plucked from the tree.
Just in the nick of time.
She doesn't reach.
Beckon
beg
thrash nor flail.
She smiles as she silently falls
further below.
The water acts as a wall.
I pound
stomp
and claw
I scream against the cool impenetrable force.
Not to free her
but join her.