Seeing You

I love swimming.

But sometimes, before or after we tumble in that ocean,

I want to walk to the rocks of you, slowly.

Come face-to-face with that rugged coastline of your jaw.

Stand still and see with clarity who I just felt, or am about to feel.

I love swimming. But sometimes I want to study you instead,

want to notice the details I won't get to when

we’re dissolving into waves,

undulating in our sea of scent, riptide of sensation.

I love swimming.

But I might love more to stop and pick up the shells,

take the wet dark sand into my hands, and run my mouth over the barnacles

crack a live mussel into my mouth.

Not because mussels are my favorite flavor.

Not because walking is better than water. But because you are my favorite.

Because this swimming, and everything that goes into it, was made slowly

by someone, somewhere.

And I don't want to miss it.

I love swimming. I promise, I do. I love closing my eyes and diving

into the surf, our bodies umbillically bound like kelp, or those orcas who

breach and crash, synchronously, without signal.

But sometimes I want to step back and

feel our separateness. Want to

roll up my jeans, kneel at your edge,

and wait until I feel a little cold, and then stay.