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Rivers

I see rivers rolling down your cheeks.

I hear them surging through the belittled seams of your heart, 

ripping each root from its place.

Like the shrill screams of seagulls fighting over food.

I see rivers,

and they are perhaps some of the most sentimental conglomerations of water I have ever seen.

Your eyes are flooded by their deltas.

Your face falls with their weight.

And I wonder where we go from here. 

A sun rains its light down onto us.

Your freckles dancing all over your skin, basking in its warmth. 

Our waters run deep, our waters are warm. 

My feet tingle in their motion. 

My knees to the river bed. 

I plead with them to keep still. 

Hold you together, kiss you tightly. 

There have never been rivers I wished I could stop up, force the movement from them.

Suck all concepts of life from the heart of them. 

All of these fast-paced rivers sitting in the land around us; rivers are meant to be beautiful.

Useful. 

Loud with happy passion. Freedom. 

Yours are nothing like that,

yours are passionate with silence, passionate with pain. 

Yours are bolts and chains and ships in bottles. 

Your rivers are tragic.