In the gold-mould turn of beginnings we swim; salt, a little ocean in Lawton suburbia, high-class. My eyes are open in that beetle-leafy cistern, catching you with kisses.
“What about graduate school?” I ask. My nose and shoulders are raw on yours, hands floating beneath. I want us to live together.
“I don’t know,” you say.
Will we live together?
I get out, smile and lie alone; leave you in the water, alone. I watch the sunlight stream into clear puddles as you lift yourself to the place beside me. You find a towel. I rest my cheek on warm concrete and listen to the dog inside.