I remember last summer. Or
was it the summer before? It must have been.
That was the summer of water.
Not rain. But oceans, lakes
the slippery seaweed that clings to the rocks,
and the salt-taste in my mouth after the day was done.
Lying in my bed, rocking with nonexistent waves
wind in my hair, in my mind
the dolphins.

There was an island.
At least, I think there was. Beautiful.
We went out in kayaks and raced the whole way there,
lay on the rocks to tan. Seagulls screamed
curses to the blue sky and my feet hurt.
I’d sliced them open on the reef
let the salt water wash away the blood and the hurting.

We left too late, a storm blowing up.
Against the currents, backs bent and hair whipping in our faces
we paddled for the shoreline.
Screamed curses into the air, open ocean between us
and the goal of land, we swore
we’d never do it again.
When we landed, though, we laughed through the rain.
Gingerly felt the blisters on our hands. Spat water.
Promised each other
that we would do it again, tomorrow.
Or next summer.

Next summer never came. Or, well
it did. But it came with heat
with anger and shimmering patterns over the roads
with betrayal and hurt but it came.

Without you, though, and the heat
burnt every trace of water from the ground.