I am sure, then, that I come as a canonball to your comfort. You aren’t used to being challenged, just as you aren’t used to being understood. A history without a past. A connection without an attraction. This isn’t the story you’ve grown used to telling, and I feel you may regret growing tired of that tale.

It scares you. I see that fear rising in your chest as you sharpen your tongue against your chattering teeth, and I see a little boy standing at the edge of the water afraid of falling in. You don’t have to worry, though. I’m not like you. My fingers contain no magic. I am not the kind of water that draws people in; you need not fear my tide. You may stand at the shore’s edge and get lost in my depth if only you allow me to gaze into those eyes that read so familiarly that I may already have a copy on my shelf.

You can say it from your chest: you enjoy my company and your fingers won’t prune. You will not lose your magnetism simply by standing next to me, but I know convincing you is a lost cause. The ocean may assure you it won’t hurt you, but what lurks inside it keeps no promises. Never agrees to not pull you down into the pitch black bits that don’t even recognize themselves. You don’t want to give me that chance.

An ear to your skinny chest as our cold

Feet entangle. A sweet, timid arm wrapped

Around my shoulder. The rain just feels right.