We drive to the lake in your car
and it is night and the night is ours and I am yours and not and
both at once shirts come sliding off raised arms
and there is cold water all over.
There are stars painted backward
on the water is a perfect glass you shatter with your arms
spinning at your sides, shrieking from the cold
already turning lips blue.
You pull me by the hand (as if I wouldn’t have followed you anywhere)
to where the water is deep and we slide below.
We are under we are quiet we are mouths full of kiss and bodies full of lake
for ever for each other for just a moment before
we run to the shore with goosebumps on our arms.
I have a photo on my phone of you sleeping,
arms twisted up over your head as you pull
the sheets over your eyes to block out the light of the (already?) morning
as it slips cruelly through the blinds and over to steal you from
the dream you were having of night and of me, both.
On the drive home we warm our hands in armpits and mouths
taste like lake and stay quiet as we pull shirts back over wet arms, we pull
from a cigarette over and over and we are home already
and it is years ago already since we both have stopped remembering
over and over the arms or the warm pull or the soft taste of lake.