One, two, three more drops
in a bucket—half full or half empty.
Nine ripples unfurling like a flower
from that point in the center of
the bucket—the sun burning at
the center of the universe.
Where the shallows fall off
into unfamiliar waters beneath
your feet. Where you’re afraid to
dive in because if you do
you’ll forget how to swim.
Those darling blue eyes
will pull you under, pupils
like sinkholes—like black holes.
You’re swallowed like a pill, a car,
a stray glimmer of a star. He expects
you to make him shine like stray atoms
colliding, sea foam under the moon,
a piece of glass in the sand. You
snap the rubber band at your wrist.
It’s fraying at the seam, like you’re
fraying where the things you
want and can’t have bleed together,
watercolors on a blank canvas.
Those blue eyes find yours
across a classroom,
across a continent,
across the sea,
and you’re two glaciers
colliding. He’s covered in the things
he’s destroyed—trees uprooted,
earth exposed. You melt, sinking into
what refuses to drink you and
swallow you whole. You float like an
iceberg, cursing the moon for the tides—
the waves that pushed him over the
horizon, the waves that take your hand,
lead you down like one, two, three raindrops
on your face. They settle, like a kiss.