ode to a poet

Last night i went swimming with Sylvia.
The water cold, the waning moon,
her hand in mine, the tide was high.
We went out too far, the bottom dropped;
we should have drowned but
the ocean rejected us.

Her failed attempts, the same as mine
are meant to happen at a specific time.

Twice came death, we laughed and joked;
twice the waters rose - we coughed, we choked.
It was then that suddenly i woke,
i left Sylvia doing the dead man's float.

Tomorrow night, i swim alone.
My black thoughts will sink as stones.