Undertow

by Sarah Moon

White moonlight bleaches the surface of water black as tar that pushes and pulls against the aged wood of the dock. Stars throb in constellations you can’t quite see: a bear, a swan, a lion. Faded tan lines on skin raised in the cold, for he has come to know you better in the absence of clothing.

He says yesterday, today, tomorrow, I’m sorry. Tomorrow. The rise of the sun before the inevitable fall; one fraction of a cyclical nature man claims to own. Nothing comes without sacrifice, and sacrifice does not come without love. 

There are certain things that make it feel like a dream. The cover of inky water, the wind whispering its secrets in the trees. If you close your eyes, you might fall asleep and drift beneath the current, seaweed wrapped around your neck like a noose.

Blood slips from your nose, a gift of hot, heavy summer air, despite the chill the water brings. You see his face and taste blood. You give him what he wants: a goodbye. You know he will not return. Not here, not to you.