my uncle can maneuver a stick shift around the tightest of spaces. tiny u-turns in this hateful village. year after year. he managed to quit smoking when we were born. i won’t call it despite, i’ll choose to see the help. the ancient mountains every morning and the gritting cicadas every night. it started when i needed someone else to feel safe. i know this now so i’ll never do it again. how many words a day is enough to feel like i lived it? he lived it? you lived it? the sun is going to hold us darker either way. in the morning i don’t have enough breath to yell over the waves, but i still want to hear what you have to say. there’s a rusted metal vertebra in the rocky gums of the shore, gaping jaw of this bay. a singular tooth to trip on. i could jump in without you. i could jump in without anyone. i could never be alone in this water, all secret creatures circling my waist and calves. oscillating. these things live in water, isn’t that clean? isn’t that amazing? the tempo doesn’t matter as long as the air keeps flowing in, out. no oxygen mask here, just myself. you don’t have a wedding band tan line and neither does he. neither do i. i don’t need to be naked to be vulnerable. not everyone knows that. hauling my body out into the late june breeze, licked by new friend. breeze familiar but never met this exact one before. never will again. every younger face on my skull, my friend. my friend.