One night you turned and made the piano an ocean,
told me to dive in, but even before you played me
into the taut steel strings of your net, I knew
I'd be lost in the undertow, tossed back and forth,
and somehow, when the current swept my breath away
I'd still find myself thinking in pillow talk,
mouthing: If I could, I would
make these insecurities a bed and
climb inside with you. We'd sew sails
from the skeletons lingering in our upstairs closets,
and maybe one day I'd find
the right words to tell you that
your body is a pond, and I
am a remarkably privileged fish–
I could lose myself in you,
let my lungs fill with water,
close my eyes, and remember
drowning is a fine art-
you've got to do it with grace,
do it so the last trembling bubble
leaves your lips like a love song,
and you sink with limbs outstretched,
and you turn a respectable shade of blue
like the tablets we'd swallow to float,
flotsam with her jetsam,
out to sea.