And this didn’t really happen,
of course,
But I imagined it
the entire hour I sat across
From him.
From him — stripped raw, languid,
his words scrawling across
the cold-surface of a table.
I leap across,
like a tiger to a dove,
and attempt to force
a living-river,
breathing and rushing
and lungs conflating
with the water we’ve provided
each other,
right into my arms —
what a fool I am.
The crook of his smile,
crescent moon,
in its effort to sway each vowel
escaping such wanting tongues —
One more sweet dance,
my love,
and I’ll have you out of here.
It is hard not to feel
the effect of his river
rushing
into my open mouth:
the sound of a conjoined thirst
not a soul can slake.
His water is in my arms,
and I’m a fool.
I am carrying,
or attempting to carry,
his dripping body
from outside this place
with only a frozen lake for a table.
But I’m a fool,
yes,
to think Savior.
Only the two of our bodies,
together,
can influence the dance
of the sea,
but I’m a fool
because I know,
I know
I’ll have to leave the roar of us
alone.