"nightswimming after years of being in love with other people"
with every muscle ready by jake kilroy.

always fall for a house sitter in the summer, the one thing i learned
in my twenties besides what grief tastes like without a funeral;
i flip through a cookbook in a kitchen the size of my apartment,
listening to her whistle as she flips through records that aren't hers.
exotica plays and she strolls in from the den in an olive bathing suit
and i have a flash of us celebrating an anniversary at an italian villa;
she holds the bottle of red she let me pick out based on name alone
and delivers a trojan horse smile and i think i smell jasmine.
maybe this is the socal life didion told me about, a prelude at least,
before i was old enough to learn bad days can follow good nights.
i estimate how many brain cells have died since i last saw her,
at a dinner party where i slurred my name to her plus one;
last time i saw all of her was in a backseat at a wedding in the woods,
for which i was minister by day and punch-drunk by nightfall.
i behold this composite sketch of impulse itch, mindful of the details
apparent, from matching toenail polish to the brunette bun
i know she's waiting to let out before diving; "right this way, sir"
her voice crackles like a campfire and i haven't met a version of her
i couldn't stop thinking about; we move past outdoor furniture
worth more than my 401k, onto the grass, beyond the fire pit
where sane, proud people toast their good life, their evening returns
to what is always here for them; two interlopers with growling hearts,
starved eyes, and bodies filmed with ocean breeze and mood lighting
booming from a garden that has no need for kitschy signs of advice.
a few playful swims to seem less eager than we were much younger
until "i've missed you" vs. "i've missed you too" — similar sentiments,
but not quite, rather a contrast of vulnerability and empathy; then,
our chins bobbing, each with two grottos of light, removing clothes
we barely wore, we ask each other what happened to the years,
as if they were cufflinks one of us misplaced, heartily swallowing
every name responsible for tremors since our navels last aligned.