Open Water

by Caleb Azumah Nelson

Faith is turning off the light and trusting the other person will not murder you in your sleep. This is basic, audacious. Name your love. Name the sweet whispers exchanged in the darkness. Name the beauty of imagining your partner’s fluttering eyelids as she dreams in her waking moments. How beautiful is beauty? You can find her lips with your eyes closed. Nothing more durable than a feeling. Tell her you’re scared of being taken from her. Tell her what you struggle to tell yourself on some days. Tell her you love her and know what comes with these words. Describe the image of God in the darkness: the crooks of her long, slender limbs, catching light, even in the dark; features slack, eyes closed, lips turned up in a slight smile, cheeks pulling up with them, a small, pleasurable sigh slipping from her mouth every so often; the way her body tightens, loosens, tightens, loosens with every touch, every graze across the fine curve of her spine. Let her kiss the single tear. You don’t know why you’re crying. Sometimes, love aches. You’re not sad but bowled over. Crumpled like a car crash. Tell her a story. Remind her about that time: The fever dream of an evening, your minds swollen with heat. You and she swing your hips this way and that, letting rum dribble from the lips of cups onto the basement floor. A friend croons melancholy from the stage but the joy is not lost. Guitars strum sweet like the cocktails in your hands. You are more than the sum of your traumas, you decide...