Isabel

When you cut through the water

your hair splayed behind you like

silk sheets in the wind

and the sun

warming droplets on your darkening skin

climbs over head, over us…

I look to you and smile.

But you don’t see me -

the lake’s mirror takes you

away

I wish I knew where…

God, I love you.

You glide further out,

kick your legs

in a swift scissor snap

so the arch of your back

bows

and breaks the surface -

I kissed you there last night

and you laughed

- and the light picks your shape through the ripples.

Will you love me still

when those midnight kisses

turn to pecks on the cheek in the hallway?

when a week is defined by the day

we mark on the kitchen wall

‘For us’;

when frantic moans turn to

ticks of the clock -

Will you love me still?

If I left a red sock in a wash full of whites,

if endless days

by the lake

in the light

of the summer

start to fade

and all we have is measures

of memories replayed in our minds -

Would you love me still?

When all I know of you

is light on a lake and your hair

splayed out like silk sheets in the wind?

you turn to shore, as the sun softly shivers

through the tips

of the oak

over head.

I’ll love you, Isabel.

Always.