1.

The first time I saw you, I was certain you were light—itself—no filters, just light. Your voice, a soft burning sun, your skin—stars.

I opened and you were gentle, your voice, and I knew I had found a sliver of God, that I was safe, that you were, too.

2.

The last time I thought I saw you, you were in the grocery store. But it was not you—you were taller, your shoulders broader, you're your step longer, your movement slower.

The last time I thought I saw you, I started to walk away—and then I walked towards—and I walked fast, and my heart, it beat wildly. You know my wild heart well, and the last time I thought I saw you, the woman I saw as you, she didn't turn around to notice.

That's when I should have known.

But she was soft, safe. That was the same. It was as if we were in a dream—you, yourself, but someone else, the details off, the words almost, almost out.

3.

The last time I saw you--you--everything was light. The room, you—the way you understood my window and my shadow, my light, as you sat near yours, looking out, breathing in.

You spread your arms wide and said, "Get out there," and you wanted to push me but didn't, and then we were in the ocean you drew, years ago, on lined paper; you, a scribble on the page, as was I—

And you said, as you handed me the ocean, "Swim," and I did, in a sea near Mexico, and I called you from the road, and you answered, you did, and we talked about how beautiful life is when it is pared down—

And in the ocean near Mexico the sun shone, Snd the mountains made everything that much more private, silent, and the morning, it was a prayer, Mary, I held her in my palms without knowing she would come, really come, to help, when I would fly to the other side of the country to begin again.

4.

The last time I will see you, I imagine it will go like this:

A hug, the ocean inside each of us, me driving away, alone or not alone, my body becoming something else, the Earth entirely, maybe the universe, the whole thing, spinning and filling my body, you, here, in my belly, the whale, God in the thread joining, separating, your body, God, I will never see you again, God, this is what I imagine, the last time, the last time.

5.

In the moment, I curl, a shell, and the scribbles of us are out there, in the ocean, ready, and as I curl I understand my own body and understand yours too, the way you would breathe, abdomen in and out, and the way I would follow, years ago—with you—and you holding me terrified, beginning, scared, honest.

6.

The transition comes. You push me out. I swim towards another, and sometimes, I look back for you, and you are there.

The last time I saw you, you swam like an angel, your body lifted with salt wings, effortlessly, warm, a light in the ocean—strong, steady, there—waving, seeing me, knowing who I am.

7.

And now, all I ask of you is this. Remember me, remember how I opened, how gentle you were, how I tried, how you tried, how we both grew, how I gathered and lost and gathered again, as did you. Remember me with you, without you. Remember me swimming on paper, blooming. Remember the way you held me as I opened, how softly you placed me in the ocean,

how I love you as I go.