Dear Wigleaf –
Let's pretend displaced love is as good a love as any.
As a child we had sculpting clay: heavy, damp, cold. We had modeling tools and smocks of men's shirts. The world lay trapped inside, waiting, but I cupped the brick and left it, inert and intact, lest I risk my buried heart.
Later, I chose safety the way you chose experience: midnight runs, rooftop hurdles, seats of red leather. In the dead of winter (I fear hypothermia) you plunge head first into the surf at Seagate, driftwood and broken glass, swimming out past desire to places unknown, because two feet on the ground doesn't cut it, not when you're loyal to living, it doesn't even come close.
Still, I picture my words in your mouth—a curve, the line of rib—I picture all of me in your mouth. I am easily possessed. You have no need for possession. Who belongs to anyone? You belong to your shoulder rising from the swell, flesh slicked muscle and bone, to the undying force of your want. The ocean here is far from paradise; it's opaque, an icy sludge, the city behind you is shrinking, but that's a point of perception. Distance minimizes everything until the tide comes in and you ride it, and the breakers carry you home.
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