Knowing I prefer the unnaturally luminous night 

to the burning scorching light of day. 

Or even more desirable the golden light that echoes through the sky and shimmers on my surface as the sun sets beyond the horizon.

Before I drift over the surface and evaporate when the bright yellow sun shines its light on me. 

It doesn’t take much for me to dissolve, to feel like I don’t belong, to want to fall and hide.

Finally, I have reached the place where they all come together. 

The sea.

We all float here, drifting on the waves that take us places where we don’t want to go. 

I have been growing on this earth for twenty-one years. 

I feel liquid. 

Flowed from shape to shape. 

Tested and tried, 

I have grown to know. 

People are scared of me when I boil with anger. 

I lose grip, I fall or break shape. 

Then I flow. In need of a place to rest. 

The palm of a hand. A touch. A warm touch. 

One is always looking for the warmth of others.

Or a bigger vessel. 

The bigger I’ve grown the more space I take in. 

Once, when I could do with just a crib, my mother watching over me. 

Then my first adventure, being thought what to do and how not to drift. 

Now drifting is all I do. 

Searching the land for a place with like-minded drops on this big boiling surface. 

No legs to ground us on the bottom

that shifts with every wave.