I think he is made of water. A spirit from the deep.
The flawless, tight, muscles of his back
built from long nights, and countless laps.
He was shy, but his body was not. Nor should it be.
Liquid wood framed his being, a carved
master work, waterlogged as if eternally adrift.
I am eating a sweet tangerine when he texts me.
– what are you doing?
-eating an orange, about to take a shower.
-can I join?
-join my eating or my shower?
The swimmer’s body was enough to incline me.
He invited me into the water. His inaudible voice,
the tone of his words, were his own siren song.
–why not both?
-well, I already finished the orange…