Unwilling survivors,
we strain these waters for warmth.
Suspended in sea-salt and brine,
preserve this moment –
the lines between blue,
brown and bright;
driven splinters into
submerged shoulders.
Boards which seem to know all
and see all. The scent of silence.
Dread treading water.

Everywhere but nowhere.
Anything but everything.
If we rebuilt ourselves
from these scraps we hold
would we still be the same?
Only the creator can tell –

but we cannot afford philosophy.
Look up and beyond words.
We drift towards the shore:
the waves roll back,
the tide recedes.
Where do I hide
these trembling hands?

Today marks both SG51 and my 2-year-anniversary of running this writing blog (having moved from Ficly and a short-lived Tumblr!)

(Not sure whether my writing has improved at all over the past few years but I hope it has.)