The waves cease, I do not hesitate to meet them,

balancing my body against the tide again.

Never open a window without first opening a door.

Prickled with rain, water spells out careless orbits.


Losing balance, my body falls into the tide again,

and I hear the undercurrent echo my name.

It stops raining, the stars spell our ancient orbits

as the surrounding coral reef begins to spawn.


Beguiled by this undercurrent of easy repetition,

the way you hold my name like a breath,

something of what I cannot say begins, like coral,

to form: afterthoughts, little deaths, left behind.


I hold my breath until you forget my name,

the signature of repeating islands ends.

As we leave form behind, death rises

above sea level with the syntax of king tides.


Signing your name – careless, incidental,

as if it did not belong to you but to that part of me which desires

the level syntax of your existence impressed upon paper,

hazed and xanaxed, ink fading like novel drug combinations.


The part of me that desires now belongs to you.

I close the door we built with words, you close the window

of syntax, the silence of our presence pressed against paper.