We sat together, our legs in the water. Ocassionally, our toes brushed as we padlled our feet. I felt your palm on the small of my back. The red sun was sinking. "It looks like fireworks", you said. I splashed.
Tonight, I see you from the porch: Eyes glowering in the moonlight. Your body sinks into shadows. The fire is warm. He bends over to add a log; I spot a rip in his overalls. Inside, the memory of your pupils is sprinkled over my eggs in bitter, tiny black grains, like peppers. "The food's good tonight", he says. I nod. I think of our legs dangling in the water: Later, our naked bodies sank into the waves, and I wondered how a downward motion could feel so much like flying.
Now, climbing the stairs, I wonder how an ascension can feel so much like going down. I sense the atoms of my body floating towards your ashes, picture your toes sinking into brown ground. Is the fire still warm downstairs, or has it gone out? He takes off his overalls. "It's like fireworks", he says, and I feel his toes brushing mine. I paddle through white waves of cotton. My hand on the small of his back, I see your eyes, glowering.
In all the stories I have read, people long for daylight. I kiss prayers into his shoulder, waiting for the dark.
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