Come find me, I'm waiting

All in my head, my vessel of notes, a bobbing bottle of scribbled letters, rolled.

Currents flow, the same way they have for years. Caught in the sun, fading the glass and weathering the cork jammed up top.

Currents lead, guiding the bottle to its beach. A cushioned landing on soft white powders of shell, embedded in the dissipating bubbles.

The sun, leaning towards the sea, beckons you with its orange gestures, like a moth towards the light you are powerless yet completely intrigued.

The powders recede beneath your feet, diverted by your momentum. In the corner of your eye, you catch a hint of pale green glinting in the sun. A bottle.

Thankfully the cork pops with minimal effort and the rolls of paper slide out, parched from the greenhouse its called home for the past few months. The handwriting is distinguishable and flows, flows as easily as you read it.

Your body arches, toes point to the earth as you embrace yourself and the letter. Your long angelic hair and matching dress spiral as you ascend, fixated. Outstretched arms like a figure skater, without the friction. Flying. I'm free, falling to the waiting waters while you're caught up in the lofted moment.

A wave crashes below and I float for a few, before the ink over my body dilutes and smudges. I am dirty. I am worthless. And its all your fault.