White-hot sunlight pours down in golden streams
That mix into the sea below our feet.
The blueish pool of liquid saline dreams
Turned milky by the sunshine’s crystal heat.
The unseen ocean, air, rips through the shelves,
Pulling cover-bound books from their places
Rosy-printed pages unbind themselves,
Creasing into pointed paper faces.
Origami figures flutter lightly,
And skim along the surface of the deep.
Lacy white sheets for lights ripple brightly
Their silky whispers waving me to sleep.
And suddenly a voice says “Why the smile?”
Turns out I haven’t spoken in a while.