We're all underwater in the dark, light filtering through in prisms, and if we listen we can hear the ocean breathe. The mermaids sing sweetness and treachery, entanglement, bliss and despair. We do not always hear the siren's song with our ears.

Some lovesick memories sometimes rise to the surface like bubbles, like blood, not nearly so salty as the waves, break the surface of our present tense, demand attention.

Nostalgia is bittersweet when we wish the memory had been different.

Can I reach out and catch the memory of a wild heart, bridle it, ride it? It's a big strong thing with hooves and teeth and it's not always willing to canter along like a trained pony. Sometimes suddenly without warning it bucks and twists in the air, and the memory of past love gets lost, racing away into the wind. It may return. It may turn into an unimportant unruly beast better off wild and good riddance. We glimpse it from afar, wild swans in the middle of the lake.

Can I hold onto something so fragile as a wish without shaking from the effort, trembling sweaty clumsy hands cradling an impossibly delicate bauble, a thought, a hope that won't ever coalesce? Use care when holding cocoons in early spring that the warmth and motion of your hands do not stir the butterfly inside before it is ready. It may emerge with stunted wings and a bulbous caterpillar body, a clumsy hideous half-formed could-have-been-a-dream with wings to cause monsoons half a world away.

We never know the extent of our influence. Do I haunt another's dreams? Does anyone know those same memories I hold close to my heart? Does anyone else hear as I hear the sirens singing, feel the pulse of the waves, feel the wind from the butterfly's wings?