Dinghy.

[Certain]

The lake is made of crystals.
It shimmers to the touch but mostly
goes undisturbed. Too often
left to its own depths and the contents that consume it.
That it consumes.
The lake stares back
some nights
with the moonlight and the chirps of crickets
and a thousand tears filling its oversized puddle.
It's reaching out. It's flat. It's drowning,
and there's no one there to
throw that life preserver from the abandoned pier.
There's only the lake.
And me.