Schizophrenic Bliss

We don’t have to speak to be comfortable around each other.

Your hand feels so warm, engulfing mine in your strong grip.

But I wonder, as I look out to the sights before me,

if you can see what I do.

I never told you about my disease, my illness.

I never told you about the figured man who walks over the water, turning everything he touches to dust.

Who beckons to me

“My child, come lay beneath my waves.”

I feel such a strong pull towards the lake, to let the creature hold me down until the last bubble of air slips from my perfectly blue lips.

My love, do you see what I do?

Or are you able to admire the beauty before you, without the shadows creeping through.