While The Expressionism floats

Clutching for the one that can steady
Your wobbling.
You are frozen a bit, with each beat of your blackened honesty
making the churns come.

So you do it;

you pop the bubbles and recreate your tundra
to find the letters that show how your heart feels, what those worried eyes
are trying to say.
And then you're not sure
sure
not sure if you want it to go
but you Man Up and do it;
and while your expressionism floats, you're left thinking
"Oh Shit", until the reply comes.

Though all I could see was he,
Not fresh and straight,
but dirty in the foam; and she,
Love, who'd pulled you from
There, and into the running.