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Something is blooming, affixed to this underwater cliff, holding tight with tiny creeping roots, clinging to a crevice, a bloom, a frond, some strange fruit.

Something is blooming: here, where the indigo tide sweeps in and sweeps out, where the moon pulls the tide in its silvery way. Always.

Where the ocean is deep and quiet, and only the sound of my heartbeat can be heard, there is a flowering of sorts. I close my eyes and wonder if the strength of my imaginings has caused this, if dreaming can take shape when water and light are just right. I wonder this as I spread my hands before me and watch the silver sacs of air trail from my fingertips, ten pearls the size of pigeon eggs. Count them!

I travel deeper into the blue

Marin.

I made it up myself; I say it out loud, as if to speak her name will bring her into my grasp. Marin.

Sometimes I say it, like the French, marine, marine, marine speaking it softly so the waves don’t hear me say it, but they drown out the sound anyway...