You finally surface, smooth as salmon, like you always do. Breathing just under the surface and I think for a moment that I could touch you without getting wet. Hover my hand over the skin of water just breaking, those ripples whispers of something more than movement.
In the belly of it, we were always backwards, and maybe now I still am. Turning, turning. No one’s broken rib.
I clean the dead flies off my new window. Reposition the plants. Throw up in the bathroom.