i admit i've thought of diving in. surrendering
to its echoed gaze, or its low-droned hum, or maybe
the comfort of weightlessness. there's something
seductive about the jump, both submitting to the drop
and robbing god of his reign. being wet isn't even
the goal and i don't know what is. it might be that
it's the closest i'll get to an aimless drift in
the empty of space though i haven't confirmed that yet.

but i don't jump. i've never even tried to actuate
my legs in such a way that might resemble a jump. instead
i stare down from the diving board and catch glimpses
of creatures on the shore that should be too small
to see from the ledge. each doing their own hop from
dirt to precious dirt. unconcerned of the depth beside,
or the rise and fall of their delicate bodies, or the
one just leaping beside them. small risk after small
risk after small risk. trusting their gut, the abdominal
ganglia so easy to ignore, until their unbitter end.

i climb down from my balcony, and i realise i'm no bigger.
nor do i want to be.