Breaststroke

I still remember the first time I held your hand. It was a Sunday. Dawn. We had just met at the harbor. The waves were crashing against the jetty and the air was thick with spray and salt. It was bitterly cold, it had been a very cold December. But you hadn't even brought a coat. So I gave you my flannel. I remember letting you wear even when I had goosebumps from head to toe. To this day my clothes look better on you. We both stood there quiet and together while the sea churned below us. Standing in that morning mist, I found the boundary between myself and the world. I turned to look at you, eager to tell you of my revelations, I had just seen the world. I looked to you and it was lost. The wind snatched it from my arms, for I had stolen what was not mine. But suddenly, I had more than ever before. You were there and everywhere, a shape unknown. I looked into your eyes, brown, green, blue. Just like the sea. Just like the sea. I had always been afraid of the ocean. I still am. I told you something I don't remember even now. It didn't matter. The sun had risen, the first leg of its swim begun. We were together standing with the wind in our eyes and the sun on our ears. I knew I had found you, my flannel flapped in the breeze. I asked if you were cold. The sea thundered, then splashed, clapped, then receded. I don't think you ever replied, but I knew. The world was in front of us, dawn a feeling. I counted - one, two, three. I grabbed your hand. Spray clipped the sky. I held you for a moment, fingers traced lives. I didn't need my flannel anymore, I wasn't cold anymore. I wasn't alone anymore. I jumped.