I don’t think I’ll ever understand
how to navigate those seas planted
in your eye sockets:

I.
In the morning, they’re placid under
grey skies on a day filled with routine.
Common and non-profound, like
light switches on plain white bedroom
walls. Others saw the promise, others
saw the life. Guess I was just drawn to
the candlelight flickering at another
house’s windowsill across the street.

II.
At noon, the jade surf ebbed towards
the shore, lapping at the tips of my toes.
Surprisingly warm and beckoning, like the
bath water my body submerges into on
days I’d rather lose track of time. Heard
my heart lose sync, heard the tug of
heartstrings. Might’ve been the way those
seas deafened the constant din of space.

III.
Tonight I see stars, occasionally blurred by
the constant swells of your ocean blue—
now as black as the voids in my own eye
sockets. Opulent and familiar, like that spot
that knows every curve of one’s warm body,
on the bed one sleeps in each night. See
you in the constellations, see you in the
depths. Always, you’re seeping into my
bare flesh every time I meet your gaze.

I cannot swim.