We’re walking along the beach that isn’t really a beach, and you’re holding my hand.
I hold yours, tighter.
I don’t tell you, but a year before, this is where I had planned to drown.
You and I wade out into the water, your jeans rolled up, my shoes thrown off.
It’s cold for the summer, but neither of us want to say.
For now, we tell each other that it’s warm, that it’s comforting.
Later, we’ll remember that it was frigid, that it was suffocating.
I tell you I’d die for you, and I mean it.
I mean it.
I don’t tell you I’d die for any number of reasons, you just happen to be the first.
Drowning not so much in water but in hope, my hands trace your back.
Your shirt is sprinkled with water you kicked up.
Your cheeks are sprayed with freckles.
My heart is beating slowly, contrary to the common metaphor.
There isn’t much meaning in it.
It’s a good night to be in love.
It’s a good night to be drowning.