Victor Rahman

Constance

Constance By V. Rahman There was a way the water had with me, a kind of coveting that could bear no name, for its density surged past the scope of measurability. You could call that love, or at least that's how I acquainted myself with the word. Here, upon the indigo liquid that I came out to every single dawn, my thoughts were harvested. My mind ramified in spreading roots of serpentine genius, born from the womb of my deliverer. That womb, which contained the amalgamation of her and I, lived on through this pool of peace. Of saccharine memories.