A Soft Drift

A faint breath of air drifted by... and then, my tendrils curled on their own. I felt the dry, coarse ridges of the woven fabric cushion beneath me. Each dangling strand brushed against the crisscrossed threads, catching ever so softly against the textured weave. There was no water here, yet the quiet stillness held me just as gently. I eased one tentacle forward, letting its tip press lightly into a shallow dip between the patterned yarns. Safe against the soft warmth of the fabric, I relaxed my grip and let myself sway to a calm stop.