Holding the Seashell

There I have decided it, to be one with the floating of gills and monsters that jostle and squirm through the black wet. I may slip on the dreams of boats that once cried down to the sea floor, the deepest set of arms. All the bones stab upward, white reach to the heavens. Tidal wishes clash and cling while I drop down through the shades of dark, a stone of hope. In the end the sharks lurk like goodbye with their chompers sharpened, a thousand crescent moons. A mermaid's body turns with subdued iridescence. She reaches out to me, recognizes me from an old photo where everything was falling and I was the one thing strong enough to hold the spiraling shell.