Sean Finan (any) // Crew Writer
My yoghurt skin makes your graham cracker skin look a few shades darker.
Evening sunlight glitters and gallops on the water,
you always look beautiful.
We lay, bodies dispersed on the warm dock like marooned starfish.
Moisture is being tractor-beamed into the sky from our chests and legs and hair.
The sea rocks us back and forth like a mother.
You say swimming like that makes you feel drunk—
I touch your head and you bite my shoulder,
“salty.”
I put my face close to yours,
our lips fold together.
I become aware of the water in my body, and yours
The taste of your mouth is salty.
After a while I have no idea how long we’ve been lying here—
the sun has sunk and is no longer washed across our bags on the shore,
remnants of a past mammalian life, about to be swallowed by the tide.
Our window for drying off on the shore closes the longer we stay on this piece of wood.
I stand up and stretch my limbs upwards and to the side, performing the various yoga postures I know—
out of order and incorrectly.
I help you up and you express your disdain for the water that once felt refreshing.
before my mind can think of a reason not to—
I cannonball into the water,
Water rushes into my ears, muffling the splash.
For one eternal moment I am curled up and encased in liquid.
I think of the Jell-O pool scene from Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.
Today the ocean is holding me.
I feel her arms on my back—
and her legs around my torso.
I think this is the first time we have swam together.
What a gift it is to giggle through water with you.
II
I sit in the cafe where you work
and watch you make coffee and eggs in circular tins.
You are playing the music you like
and I am working on my computer.
You make the most regular eggs the most kind creation
I wonder if your customers know how lucky they are
to eat your eggs.
Is it strange to say you are like the mother hen of this cafe?
III
Leaving your house:
The world is covered in dew.
My eyes are fuzzy–I forgot to bring a replacement for my contact lenses—
which lie still,
glued to your chapstick on your bedside table—
making him look like a hopeful young boy with big translucent eyes,
or abnormally large circular glasses.
A beautiful accidental child.
Like Harry Potter.
Our breakfast still digesting in my stomach,
continues to remind me of you.
A warm light shines through my chest.
I think about the conversations we just had—
things that I said,
things that you said.
and I wonder what you are thinking about,
and how your stomach is feeling.