We were sitting on the shore again, watching the waves,
and I smiled at the sunlight skipping on the surface,
helpless to my happiness here, even after all this time.
And you said, ‘Aye, but we don’t know what lies beneath.
There could be anything hidden under there, in the depths.
Broken bottles, bodies, boats. God only knows.
Sharp things. Vicious things.
It only looks nice on the surface, sitting here,
but it’s really something else underneath,
something difficult,
something dangerous.’
I’d known you for a lifetime by then.
Twenty-two too short summers,
drinking beer and staring at the waves,
crashing into each other or being calm and silent,
letting the years flow past.
So there really wasn’t much I could say, just
nod and agree and take another sip,
stare straight ahead,
try not to think about the laughter lines tiptoeing around your eyes,
and how much I had been gloriously responsible for each one,
and how they might feel like coming home against my fingers.
Try not to think about what lies beneath the surface of us,
what hides in the depths,
how dangerous it is underneath,
how difficult,
how vicious,
how sharp.