My mother is rocking herself like a cradle
What would it be like to drown?
	What was it like to breathe?
“It’s okay.”
	“It’s okay.”
Once
	Repeat
Blur the lines between memory and reality 

	The pumice stone oscillating between beach and sea
Do you like the coarseness of sand?
	Do you like the taste of salt?
“It’s okay.”
	“It’s okay.”
Once
	Repeat
Blur the lines between comfort and pain

	Voices rise and fall like white-peaked waves
What do you think about the songs of the ocean?
	What do you think about the songs that we’re singing? 
“It’s okay.”
	“It’s okay.”
Once
	Repeat
Blur the lines between salt and sweet

	A warm stone hand dripping cold salt water
Do you like the water’s embrace?
	Are you comfortable in your bed?
“It’s okay.”
	“It’s okay.”
Once
	Repeat
Blur the lines between sleep and awake

	My mother cannot swim with you in the ocean
What was it like to drown?
	What is it like to breathe?
“It’s okay.”
	“It’s okay.”
Once
	Repeat
Blur the lines between truth
	and lie

Only Georgia could make me fantasise
Swapping out “son”
			for “daughter”
And pretending I had written it first

I like to think 		I could write as prettily
As the girl who sings	Georgia	Georgia	I love….
	Synesthesia 		images of you
But I can’t even say sin uhs thee zhuh right
And I don’t think “prettily” is a word

But you’re not a word 
					…you’re more of a feeling

Because I’ll bitch about university
Say, “I’ll never go back.”
.
	.
		.
			Only to leave 			and realise
That I miss the pat on the back
		A hand moving in a circular motion
			Telling me
				(Tell me)
					that I’m 
						good

And I’ll carry that fossil fear
	Of flying 
			over
		seas

But for you,
	Oh, you…
					I am Icarus reborn 

						For you 

Are the streets of my hometown
That I know so intimately
		but will always avoid walking 

Or the cold morning air
That		beneath my window
	 seeps 

(To make me shiver
				To bring me relief
								To cut through the heat in my room)

All of it
All of it
brings me back to you.
…

There are better ways to say
 			I. adore. you.
But ours isn’t a language one reads
			or should even attempt to write

It is the 8pm dance party
In the middle of Countdown
And the sound of your laughter
As we find our way home