twenty-six july
two : twenty-three p.m.

we went to the beach.

stopped on the way, pictures in the parking lot. helmet-clad cyclist in the drive through lane.

the boardwalk. so many people for a sunday night. taking off shoes, rolling up pant legs, racing toward the sea. girls before boys. soaked to the waist.

and then all of us. the water was warmer than i remembered. we fell into and over the sandbars and ditches, knocked to our knees by an unexpected wave. holding hands, drenched and laughing. and laughing.

you wrote: walking back to the car, soaked, sandy, shoeless, and now exhausted from freedom, we were one wallet short, and 4 smiles brighter.

deer on the roadside. craned necks in the backseat, looking for stars, clouds, airplanes. "hope" (me) and "hoping" (you), scrawled in messy capitals on the fogged car windows. "it might," written smaller, in the corner.

i am so excited you exist.

i said: "my heart is still the size of a kickball. at least that big."

you said: "if i ever play with it, i'll make sure it never goes foul. it's too precious for that."

you already are. you already are.