SPRINGTIDE    

   

by  emily  schwager    

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TABLE  OF  CONTENTS:    A  Thank  You……………………………………………………………………………………….…..pg.  4  Withdrawn……………………………………………………………………………….……………pg.  5  Letter  to  the  Golden  Girl  …………………………………………………………………………pg.  6  Different  Seasons,  Different  Boys…………………………………………………….………pg.  7  Love  Letter  to  Donald  Trump………………………………………………………………….pg.  8  Five  Guys…………………………………………………………………………………...….……….pg.  9  Spring  Adventures……………………………………………………………..…..….……..……pg.  10  This  is  Not  a  Love  Poem.…………………………………….…………………………..……….pg.  11  Coffee………………………………………………………………………………………..…..………pg.  12  Sin  of  the  Calf……………………………………………………………………….…...…...…….….pg.  13  In  Preparation  for  Summer……………………………………………………………..……….pg.  14  How  To  Tell  Someone  You  Can’t  Be  Friends  Anymore……………………………...pg.  15-­‐17  Babysitting  Arlo…………………………………………………………………..…….……..……pg.  18  An  Apology………………………………………………………………………….…….…….….…pg.  19  Saturday  Brunch………………………………………………………………….…….….………pg.  20  Ode  to  the  Bearded  Boy………………………………………………………..…….……….…pg.  21            

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DEDICATION:    ~*To  my  mom,  dad  and  grandparents,  who  are  the  most  intelligent,  goofy  and  supportive  people  I  know.*~    ~*To  all  of  my  friends,  who  are  my  inspiration  and  my  expression.*~    ~*To  everyone  I  wrote  to,  here  is  a  compilation  of  things  I  wanted  to  say  but  never  did.*~                                                        

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A  Thank  You    i.    You  sit,  cross  legged,  next  to  a    tomb  stone—poised  and  exposed    as  though  you  might  take  too  deep  of  a    breath  and  float  up,  up,  up—so  numb    and  so  aloof,  you  don't  realize  how    far  you  have  suspended  yourself.    I  am  holding  your  hand,  grounded,  an  observer.  For  once,  I  am    the  one  guiding  you.  You  smile  at  me,    dreamily.  This  is  a  right  of  passage.  This    is  a  celebration.    ii.  Levelheaded,  curly-­‐headed,  you  with  the  crooked  pinkies,  take  me    by  the  hand  and  lead  me  towards  a    red  river.  It  is  winter  and  we  walk    gently  over  the  frost  coated  grass,  barefoot  and  blue-­‐lipped,  as  graceful  as    snow  fairies.  When  we  reach  the  edge,  you  hold  my  hair  so  I  can  dip  my    head  into  the  water.  You  call  me    Achilles,  and  my  mind  is    no  longer  vulnerable.    iii.  I  lay  on  my  back,  motionless  and  openmouthed.    You  stand  above  me,  arms  extended.  Calmly,  almost  as  if  not  at  all,  you  reach  into  my  mouth  and  extract  a  glowing  blue  orb  the  size  of  a  cherry  pit    from  the  back  of  my  throat.  You  place  it  in  the  palm  of  your  hand  and  examine  it—careful  and  tender—before  squishing  it  between  your  fingers.  I  never  thanked  you  for  saving  my  life—  I  was  choking  to  death.        

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Withdrawn My cheeks are the raw, fleshy insides of a grapefruit and the trees freeze like statues dipped in milk. It is silent, the woods mourn every skeleton and root. My dog’s paws fall onto the firm, stained snow—absolutely mute, My throat is shrinking; each gasp renders me ill; my cheeks are the raw, fleshy insides of a grapefruit. My sleeve is soaked with saline, it pollutes my brain, unjustified and overpowering. I walk until it is silenced. The woods mourn every skeleton and root. I extract a dandelion from my marrow, place it in your champagne flute. I am adrift. I am told I am adrift. I am leaking downhill. My cheeks are the raw, fleshy insides of a grapefruit My eyelids fall. I fall with them. My vitality is minute. The bench is frigid and estranged, I am confined in a bastille that is silent. The woods mourn every skeleton and root. I call to you, hoping you will uproot Me, buried under spoiled snow. (But you’re racing uphill.) My cheeks are the raw, fleshy insides of a grapefruit; it is silent, the woods mourn every skeleton and root.

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A  Letter  To  The  Golden  Girl    When  I  first  saw  you  it  was  like  looking  into  the  sun.  Daughter  of  the  sky,    you  were  drenched  in  ultraviolet  from    pinky  to  pelvis.  It  dripped  from  your  bangs  and  stained  your  cheeks.  You  smiled    at  me  and  I  was  sunburned.      When  I  first  saw  you  it  was  like  going  to  my  first  show.  It  was  the  sound  of  the  guitar  when  they    hooked  it  onto  the  amp  and  even  more  so    when  they  were  strumming  out  of  tune.    You  linked  our  pinkies,  sipped  my  root-­‐beer    and  nodded  along  to  the  music,  foot  tapping,    body  swaying—you  didn’t  know  how  to  be    graceful  until  no  one  was  watching.      When  I  first  saw  you  it  was  like  stripping  into  our  underwear  and    sinking  into  a  bitter  river.  Like  sisterhood.  You  were  bloom  /  vigor  /  energy  and    inosculated,  we  grew  together  from  the  dirt.  Intertwined  and  blinded,  I  hadn’t  realized  when  I  had  stopped  breathing.        

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different  seasons,  different  boys    i.  humid  morning  air,  we  travel:  agile  and  sober  under  a  dark  sky.  you—all  bike  and  flesh  and  brusque;  me,  a  breathless  silhouette.    ii.  hiking  through  frick  park:  barren  trees  and  fallen  leaves.  the  sky  is  gray,  the    grass  is  gray,  the  pond  is  gray,  everything  but  us  is  gray.    iii.  a  basement,  throbbing,  music  pouring  though  the  door—  boy,  you  love  this  band.  we  stumble  to  panera,  you,  defrosting  with  the  snow.    iv.  the  grass  is  itchy—    and  your  head  rests  on  my  lap.  i  play  with  your  hair.  the  graveyard  is  silent  with  us.  springtime:  blue  skies,  blue  boy.        

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A  Love  Letter  to  Donald  Trump    I  have  a  confession:  I  have  this    insatiable  addiction  to  overpriced  hair  products.    That,  and  thousand  dollar  suits  sewn  by  underpaid  Mexican  workers,  and    orange  skin  treatment  and  18k  rose  gold  wrist  watches  and  French  made  cuffs.  See  the  truth  is,  I’m  a  conservative  republican.  I  mean,  don’t  tell  anybody  but  I  can’t  stop  reading  about  your  legal  immigration  policy.    I  mean,  I  love  the  way  late  night  comedians  just  rip  you  apart.  I  mean,  you  only  went  bankrupt    four  times.    You  say  you’re  worth  ten  billion,  honey,  oh  little  did  you  know  you’re  not  even  worth  half  of  that.  It’s  okay  though.  I  like  it    that  way.  Like,  you’re  the  definition  of  vainglory,  like  your  hair  cut  costs  more  than  my  college  tuition.      You  see,  it  just,  ensured  my  vote  when  you  said    you  would  bang  your  daughter.  It  made  me  realize  what  a  family  man  you  were.    I  want  to  write  racist  tweets  with  you.    I  want  to  question  Obama’s  birth  with  you.  I  want  to  ignore  global  warming  with  you  and  sit  on  my  couch  on  November  8th  of  2016  to  watch  you  get  elected  to  be  the  first    Orange-­‐American  president  of  the  United  States.    I  want  to  deport  entire  families  with  you.    One  night,  I  find  myself  sitting  in  my  basement,  watching  the  republican  debates.  I    envision  you—a  real  American—leading  our  country,    so  powerful  and  sexy  and  unaware  of  how  to    negotiate  foreign  policy.  God  Bless  you,    Mr.  Trump  and  God  Bless  America.          

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Five  Guys    We  raise  thick  burgers  to  watery  mouths,  Bite.  Swallow.  Sip  cherry  cola,  our  mouths    chew  the  words  we  want  to  say,  the  words  we  have  been  ingesting  for  months.  You  open  your  mouth,    close  it.  You  sit  across  from  me,  a  melanistic  wolf.    I  avoid  your  gaze,  dip  a  fry  in  ketchup  and  place  it  in  my  mouth.    Old  arguments  churn  in  my  stomach  like  bad  milk.  We  finish  our  burgers.  Wipe  our  mouths.        Thing  have  felt  off  between  us  you  say.  Peanut  shells  are  strewn  on  the  table.  I  crack  one  with  my  mouth.    I  bite  the  inside  of  my  cheek  with  my  teeth,  taste  the  blood  in  my  mouth.      Words  that  had  set  up  camp  on  my  tongue  find  their  way  to  the  front  of  my  mouth.      We  have  been  sitting  here  long  enough    for  the  rainwater  to  dry  from  our  clothes.  My  mouth—    chaotic.  Reminder:  You  are  not  angry,  Emily.  Taught  lips    loosen,  shoulders  relax.  We  sit,  vulnerable,  open  mouthed.        

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Spring  Adventures    The  yellow  custard  drips  on  pink  fingers,  and  every  ray  of  sun  will  kiss  the  train    and  tracks  below  our  feet.  Her  smile  lingers  on  freckled  cheeks  and  I  cannot  abstain    from  capturing  the  way  you  thaw  into  the  sky.  It  smells  like  street  art  and  your  sweat,  unholy  bricks  are  cracked  and  melt  onto    the  road.  (You  pray  the  cops  will  get  upset.)  We  stand  above  the  birds,  drop  with  the  storm.    the  chains  sway  like  tits  in  the  spring,  and  we    loose  the  crater  in  the  fence.  The  lukewarm  air  blows  ginger  and  brown  bangs.  We  agree  to  cut  mangos  here  ‘cause  summers  not  far,      you  take  my  hand  and  pull  me  towards  the  car.      

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This is Not a Love Poem: When We Used to Hang Out (Before You Got a Girlfriend) Saturday mornings, we would travel to the forest after soaking cheap sushi in cheap soy sauce and sipping over-priced bubble tea—You, humming to the radio and me, arms swaying to the music, agile and vulgar as the leaves that crunched beneath our toes. I discovered treasures under my fingernails, discovered treasures inside geocaches buried in the forest. You were my yellow bird and you made me radiate shades of aureolin, made music emit from my pours like sweat. You leave traces of yourself in my pockets. You will leave for Philadelphia on my birthday. You have discovered what 5:00am looks like with someone else. The forests you navigate with her are more seductive and unpredictable but she makes you radiate shades I never will—never want to—be able to. The music you sing for her is the same music you sing for me—but sweeter. It leaves me pooling in my basement like distilled seltzer, discovering how to seep into the ground and drain into the forest. I've started biting my fingernails again and It's difficult to radiate the same shades of aureolin without you. Now, I radiate stains of rubicund and the music I write it often chaotic. (You tell me it’s spring but the leaves are not green.) You have discovered a way out of our forest without me. I wait until you pry yourself away and sneak to my house to make fresh squeezed lemonade and pancakes at 1:00am. We are older but we radiate the same ancient energy that we have for 16 years. We play soft music and avoid talking about her but when you leave I allow myself to flood the basement, to discover what the insides of my drainpipe look like. (I am abandoned in this forest.) I have discovered how to escape the woods without you and the forest is learning how to survive without your music. When you leave, I will invent new colors to radiate.

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Coffee  (To  Emily)    i.  After  you  get  dressed  you  walk  downstairs  to  meet  me.  Steaming;  I  kiss  you.          

ii.  Today  you  said  I’m  

sweet  like  sugar,  baby,  you  love  sugar,  baby.  

But  then  you  didn't  use  one  teaspoon  of  sugar,  baby.  

     

 iii.  

Tips  to  stay  awake:  Bite  the  inside  of  your  cheek,  

mix  me  with  your  blood.        

 iv.  

You  call  me  smoky,  resinous,  you  say  I’m  steamy,  creamy,  crisp.  

Take  my  waist  and  pull  me  close,  you  can  smell  like  me  for  days.  

       v.  You  French  kiss,  French  press  me  down.  I’m  suffocating.  I  think  you  like  it.            

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The  Sin  of  the  Calf    I  am  enervated.  I, who cut each individual finger off and handed them to you in a diamond encrusted box, with stumps for ears and plastic replacing my teeth and eyes. And you, who nailed chains to my feet knowing that if you dropped me on an mud covered sidewalk, I would sit there to offer a painless route across. (I welcome the opportunity!) I burned my wrists dipping you in molten aureate: my own personal golden calf. I spent years condoning lies and attention-seeking falsehoods as you thieved and then christened yourself a coquette. (When you split your tongue in two, ordering one side to tell the truth and the other to lie, I only saw one side.) You, you are not sad, you are obsessed with the idea of it, with the image of sadness. You are a basket, and every morning you fill yourself with new assets, new identities, new stories and so forth. (Now you tell me I am a rose, and I wonder if you have branded yourself a thorn or a belladonna or perhaps not a flower at all.) I have removed the chains you attached to my feet; I have destroyed you, golden calf. You fake god, you imposter. You need to admit your faults, you need to break your kneecaps for me this time. I am tired of worshipping you.    

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In Preparation for Summer Picture this: I am standing in front of a bathroom mirror, naked; In one hand, I hold a razor— pink and unused, it sits in my palm like an unwelcome house guest that drops his coat on your carpet and eats all the food you had saved for leftovers. I stand there, belly soft and round, tits sagging in the mirror. I am a gardener, can you tell? Every night, I stand in the shower and water my willow trees, fingers brushing calves, dripping steam, bleeding dew. My legs are a rainforest, my armpits, fine ivy. And yet we have raised ourselves to think they are ugly. We have whispered to them for years saying this is how to be a woman and this is how to please a man. Beads of sweat stick to my bangs and sit on the red in my cheeks. My raw thoughts stand up, raise their fists and ask me how to love my body. I confront my reflection. I want to be naked in front of you, want you to drop to your knees, drop to your boniest bones and accept my natural flesh. Don’t tell me how to define womanhood. I am not a lady; I am a gardener. Let me breathe life when I please.                              

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How  to  Tell  Someone  You  Can’t  Be  Friends  Anymore:    Start  with  the  soles  of  your  feet.    Tell  them  to  keep  walking  every  time  you    see  him,  sitting  alone  in  the  ally    smoking  a  cigarette  and  highlighting  a  book    before  school.  He  will  look  up,  and  make  eye  contact    with  you,  pleading  for  your  sympathy,  or  your    companionship.  He  will  offer  you  a  sip  of  his  drink.  It’s  a  little  hot  he  will  say.  Don’t  take  it.  Not  because  it  is  hot  but  because  it  will  be  misleading.  You  are  angry.  You  are  hurt.  Do  not  let  his  sadness  or  his  charm  or  his  caffeine  draw  you  back  in.      He  will  approach  you  later  that  morning.    He  will  say,  Are  you  gunna  make  any  attempt  to    hang  out  with  me  or  what?  Don’t  absorb    his  pain.  I  know  you  will  but  don't  let  it    bother  you.  I  know  you  will  do  that  too.    Take  a  deep  breath.  Respond  calmly.  Say,  What.  Yes  of  course.  I  just  need  to    figure  things  out.  You  know  this  might  not    be  true  but  don’t  start  anything  until  you  are    sure.  That,  if  anything,  is  essential.      Next,  move  to  your  kneecaps.  In  fact,  address  all  of  the  bones  in  your  body  at  once.  Tell  them  not  to  shake  when  you  see  him.    Remind  them  to  stay  still  when  he  approaches  the  bookcase  behind  you  in  search  of  some  author  who  writes  about  poetry  or  anarchy  or    maybe  both.  He  will  mutter,  Sorry  when  he    bumps  into  you.  Don’t  let  him  notice  how  much  you    miss  him.  You  are  nervous,  I  can  tell.  Your    body  is  betraying  you.  Try  to  stand  still.  I  said  stand  still,  god  damn  it.  He  can  never    know  these  things.    You  will  find  him,  sitting  in  front  of  the    61C  Cafe  one  Sunday  afternoon.  You    knew  he  would  be  there.  You  will  have  a    speech  planned.  He  will  be  wearing  all  green  and  black  and  looking  at  the  ground.  You  will  follow  him  onto  the  roof  of  some  building  overlooking  the  city  and  he  will  say  What’s  been  going  on  with  you?  This  

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is  the  beginning  of  a  very  long  conversation.  His  eyes  will  get  watery,  like  that  night  she  told  him  to  never  talk  to  her  again.  You  will  remember  how  you  laid  on  you  side  and  rubbed  his  back  and  the  blueness  of  the  sheets  you  tucked  him  into  bed  with.  The  roof  will  feel  like  a  graveyard.  Do  not  bury  yourself  in  it.      Be  some  kind  of  disappointed  when  you    didn’t  officially  end  your  friendship  that  day.  Be    some  kind  of  relieved  at  the  same  time.  When  you  get  sick  two  days  later,  not  even    soup  will  help.  You  friends  will  tell  you  it  is  because    you  are  unhappy.  Stress  and  sadness.  That’ll  do  it.    You  will  ask  your  therapist  if  that  is  true.    Her  office  is  colder  than  usual.  You  will    blow  your  nose  and  say  I  don’t  even  have  a    fever.  She  will  tell  you  it  is  heartbreak,    the  platonic  kind.      He  had  spent  nights  in  your  basement  playing  chess  or  convincing  you  to  go  to    eat  n’  park  to  get  bottomless  coffee    and  pie  at  2:00am.  You  and  your  friends  would  watch  movies,  watch  each  other  dance  under  the  blue  moon  /  under  the  blue  snow  /  into  the  blue  sky.  He  had  left  enough  clothes  at  your  house  to  wear  for  a  week.  You  had  taken  over  fifty  disposable  pictures  of  him  but  none  of  them  were  sufficient.  He    always  looked  too  much:  too  glum,  too  distracted,  too  emotionless—but  never  too  happy.      Write  him  a  letter.  Edit  it  seven  times.  Send  drafts  of  it  to  your  friends.  Read  it    to  your  parents.  Edit  it  again.  Stay  up  writing  in  your  journal  about  the  perfect  way  to    tell  someone  you  can’t  have  them  in  your  life  anymore.  Make  it  sound  angry.  No,  make  it  sound  exhausted.  Try  to  give  it  to  him    the  next  day.  Chicken  out.  Edit  it  again.  Tell  him    he  messed  up.  Tell  him  this  is  for  the  best.  Tell  him  you  love  him  twice.  Three  times.  Sit  in    bed  and  rip  it  up.  Try  again.    

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 When  you  give  him  the  letter,  he  will    read  it  and  say  Okay.  You  will  wish  he  made  a    bigger  deal  about  the  whole  thing.  You  will    be  grateful  he  didn’t.  Finally,  move  to  your  eyes.    Tell  them  not  to  search  for  him  on  the  street.  When  they  do,  you  will  find  him  already    staring  at  you  and  this  will  make  you  crave    what  once  was.  Stop  it.  I  said  stop  it.  Things  can  never  be  how  they  were,  hoping  for  otherwise  will  only    twist  the  knife  deeper.    His  fingernails  are  bitten  and  bloody  and    you  can  only  wonder  if  he  has  told  your  friends  what    happened  or  if  he  has  stayed  up  late,  crying  in  his  bed,  chain-­‐drinking  tea  and  writing  poems  about  you    (since  you  have  already  done  the  latter.)  Consider  him:    alone  and  corrupt,  so  desperate  and  resentful.  He  will  approach  you  on  Friday  and  ask    if  you  want  to  get  coffee  and  you  must  wonder:    when  will  I  find  closure.                                            

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Babysitting  Arlo      You  get  into  my  car,  barefoot,  holding  a  cardboard  cup  of  cold  coffee,  it’s  past  nine  o’clock,  and  the  moon  emerges  from  beneath  the  roots  of  an  old  tree.  I  turn  up  the  music  as  we  drive  past  the  graveyard:  the  thick  spring  breeze  drenches  my  bangs.    It’s  past  nine  o’clock,  and  you  emerge  from  beneath  the  roots  of  an  old  tree.  You  get  into  the  seat  next  to  me  and  we  drive  towards  Braddock.  The  thick  spring  breeze  drenches  my  bangs  as  we  inhale  and  exhale  the  words  buried  underneath  our  tongues.    You  get  out  of  the  seat  next  to  me  when  we  arrive  in  Braddock.,  He  exchanges  Arlo  for  a  cigarette  on  his  front  porch,  inhaling  and  exhaling  the  words  buried  underneath  his  tongue.  Arlo  contemplates  screaming  for  attention  as  he  lies  in  his  crib.      He  exchanges  Arlo  for  a  conversation  on  his  front  porch.  I  ask  him,  How  are  you  doing?  and  he  shrugs,  Arlo  screams  for  attention  as  he  lies  in  his  crib—  our  words  are  abandoned  on  the  porch  next  to  his  cigarette  butt.      I  ask  him,  How  are  you  doing?  and  he  shrugs,  You  get  into  my  car,  barefoot,  holding  a  cardboard  cup  of  warm  coffee,    our  words  are  abandoned  on  the  porch  next  to  his  cigarette  butt.    I  turn  up  the  music  as  we  drive  to  the  graveyard.    

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An  Apology    i.  I’m  not  sure  if  this  is  an  apology.  If  it  were,  I  might  tell  you    that  it  is  okay  to  cry  in  front  of  me,  that  it  is  okay  to  sit  in  the  passengers  seat  and    whisper  in  your  quietist  whisper  about    how  much  you  hate  him  (and  about    how  much  you  love  him.)  I  might  run  my    fingers  over  your  freshly  shaven  hair    and  say,  You’re  allowed  to  be  sad,  and  I’m  sorry.  I’m  not  sure  if  it  would  still  be  an  apology  this  way—  I,  of  course,  would  still  disagree  with  you    and  you  would  still  disagree  with  me,  but  at  least    we  would  be  on  the  same  page.    ii.  You  spot  me  standing  outside  the  Roboto  in  between  sets,  eating  seitan  wings  with  greasy  fingers.  I  follow  you  down  the  street    into  a  back  ally.  I  ask  you    if  you’re  still  mad  and  you    ask  me  if  I’m  still  friends  with  him.    After  a  while  you  finally  look  at  me    and  say,  Well,  I  guess  this  is  it.  It  took  me  three  weeks  to  finally  take  down  all  those  disposable  pictures    of  you  hanging  on  my  walls.      iii.    Have  you  ever  tried  talking  to  someone  underwater?  Eyes  squinting,  lips  moving  slowly—You  always  rush  your  sentences,  running  out  of  breath  in  thirty  seconds  but    still  talking  until  you  feel  that  pressure    in  the  back  of  your  throat,  the  last  bubble  slipping    out  of  your  mouth  tenderly.  I  know  you  must,    because  that’s  how  you  sounded  last  month  in  the    ally.  I  never  understood  what  you  were  saying    until  yesterday  when  I  told  him  we  couldn’t  be    friends  anymore.  I  want  to  let  you  know  I  was    thinking  of  you,  all  blue  in  the  face,  trying  to    send  me  a  message  underwater.    

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Saturday  Brunch    Grilled,  peppered,  bacon—  We  eat  crepes  on  the  back  porch  Everything,  holy.  

 Naked  and  dancing—  

we  radiate  old  steel  mills  The  rain  hits  warm  skin.  

 Uprooting  winter,  Dirt  under  our  fingernails,  sweat  and  sweat  and  sweat.  

 Cheeks,  red  like  peaches,  

We  eat  pomegranate  seeds,  sipping  homeless  wine.  

 Shoulder  to  shoulder,  we  give  politics  a  seat  at  the  brunch  table.    

Too  hot  for  leather,  we  sit  in  short  sleeved  flannels  

and  never  wear  shoes.    Sautéed  potatoes,  onions,  bacon,  eggs  and  grits—  the  menu  today.  

 We  lick  the  plates  clean,  

and  dance  through  your  kitchen.  So  rough,  so  graceful.  

 Cherry  pits  and  juice,  I’m  covered  in  new  freckles.  Crushed  ice  freezes  teeth.  

 Stroll  down  spring  sidewalks,  we  head  to  the  grocery  store.  

Green  liberation.    The  softest  music,  the  loudest  people.  Baby  how  I  miss  those  days.  

   

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Ode to the Bearded Boy i. On July 31st there is a rare blue moon and you ask me to meet you on the deck at 1:00am. We lay there and listen to that playlist I made titled slow and talk about the time you went stargazing in the Israeli desert and some story you love called “the egg.” When my teeth start to chatter you cup my fingers between yours and whisper into the gaps until our palms get sweaty (and even then you don’t let go.) Sometimes you will forget what you want to say next and things will get quiet (not that I would rather lay next to anyone else’s silences.) I can still see you, glowing under the blue moon, lips parted so as if you might swallow it whole. It’s those types of moments you don't forget. ii. Have you ever had so much trouble sleeping that you decide to get out of bed to make a cup of peppermint tea and draw a warm bath? You might dip your toes in, ever so slowly, before submerging yourself all at once. When the water reaches past your neck, you close your eyes and blow bubbles underneath with your nose—so silently, so purposely, as if you want to drown yourself but not quite. I guess what I’m trying to say is I miss you. iii. Sometimes I only kiss you in my dreams. When I tell you this, you ask me to open my eyes and when I do, I see you laying next to me, naked and holy, so gentle and pure that it’s almost as if you are here. I wish you were here I wish you were here I wish I could kiss you now.