six and seven, eight and nine.

Imagining you standing there on the water's edge, I begin to understand what it is about you. The wind the way it would pick up all the pieces of your hair and the sun it would reflect in your eyes. They'd be cast in a light brown, tree trunks, Greek pottery, chai tea. And you'd have that smile painted across your lips like that smile I saw drawn out carefully in the darkness of dawn under layers of blankets. Laughing, laughing like you tend to do: at me, with me, for me, beside me, under me, above me, into me, breathing me awake. Your hands are words in French. I'm trying to translate, I'm trying to comprehend. I'm trying when you tell me my ears are tiny. I'm trying when you point to my heart, when you point to me. Moi-même. If I could only read you like I read my novels, if I could only write you like I write the quotidian. I try: it is so little, so tiny, so inconsequentially, so insubstantially you. You are so many pieces. Perhaps I cannot hold even one of them. I like to imagine I can. I like to imagine you standing there, your hair turning to salty strings, your eyes lit up, your hand reaching out to grab me and tickle the spot between my ribcage and hip, until I fall into the sand laughing.