We could hold our breath for hours, lifetimes it seemed.
Throughout the short sprawl of our youth we’d practice,
goofing beneath the canopy curled like a cocked trigger,
our eyes popping light bulbs,
tears running jagged down our chins.
That trick won me a way out, a swim scholarship.
I medaled and majored all because I never had to come up for air.
Now, I’ve sunk under the warmest water
and I can see through the thin-sheeted surface,
watching you color your lips and flip your hair,
knowing where you’re going
but not when you’ll return,
if ever this time.