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Saltwater does not flow up.
It fizzles.
Like the loose legs of a seasick tourist,
or the frying of old bacon grease.
Down along the nose it goes, when no one sees,
because no one sees,
down along the nose it goes.
Eventually it goes awa-really we're just waiting.

The old velvet curtains, curtains bowing,
lead the audience to believe it could be anything.
You are the playwrite, so only you know that
saltwater does not flow up. 

Questions, impressions, indents,
so many pores on the face.
It feels off like a lace of
pumpkin spice and empty blend.
Another crime, this time your hand.
That troutless stream, a bank now dammed.
Never to hold back up again.

No, saltwater does not flow up.
It flows in the direction of the heart,
like flowers on the first date
or vows upon the wedding day
or... no, nevermind that reminds you of...
Yes, nevermind.
What's done is done and
Saltwater just will not flow up.