Circling

She ran into the water naked
and I went after her
like there was something in me
worth drowning.

The Pacific was all black muscle,
all bite,
all moon-shattered teeth.
It hit my knees, my thighs, my gut
and kept going.
Cold enough to make a body tell the truth.
Out ahead of me she turned once,
blonde hair stuck wet to her face,
blue eyes flashing open in the dark,
tattoos swimming over her shoulders
whenever the water lifted.

I was already gone by then.
Already all mouth, all pulse.
No good sense left in me.
Just salt.
Just want.

She laughed when I reached her,
that low laugh,
that knowing one,
and it landed in me ugly.
Her hands found my waist
like they had been looking for it all night.
Strong hands.
Cold from the ocean.
Mean enough to wake everything in me.

The tide kept shouldering between us,
dragging at our thighs,
then knocking us back together
hard enough to feel.
She stayed close.
Closer.
Not kissing me yet,
which was obscene.
Just breathing there,
mouth almost on mine,
looking at me like she could smell
how badly I wanted it.

So I touched her.

Shoulder first.
Wet skin.
Blurred ink.
The hard, live shape of her under my palm.
Then her arm,
her side,
whatever the water would let me keep.
Everything slick and shifting,
everything half-lost in the dark,
which only made it worse,
only made me greedier.

When she kissed me
it felt less like sweetness
than being found.

Her mouth was warm in all that freezing water,
warm and sure and not the least bit merciful.
I opened for her without thinking.
Without dignity.
A sound got out of me then,
small and broken and impossible to take back,
and she swallowed it like she’d been waiting.

One hand slid up my side.
Slow.
Not gentle.
Not rough either.
Just exact.
Like she wanted to feel the place
where my body stopped being mine.
Her thumb pressed once and I came apart under it.
Not fully.
Worse.
In pieces.

The ocean kept hitting me cold on my back,
cold at the backs of my knees,
cold everywhere except where she was.
Where she was,
everything burned.
Her mouth.
Her grip.
The blunt shape of her shoulder under my teeth.
My fingers catching in her wet hair once,
just once,
and her breath turning sharp against my mouth.

That did something vicious to me.

I kissed her harder after that,
ugly with it,
hands wandering without manners,
over salt-slick skin,
over the dark, broken map of tattoos,
down the strong line of her side
as the water shoved us together again.
The Pacific was loud around us,
violent and blind,
but all I could hear was breath,
hers and mine,
all I could think was yes,
again,
don’t stop,
don’t you dare stop now.

By the time we stumbled back toward shore
I was shaking so badly
I couldn’t have said from what.
Cold.
Want.
Her.
The black heap of our clothes waiting above the tide line
like a joke neither of us respected anymore.

She stood there dripping,
moonlight caught in the blue of her eyes,
one hand pushing wet hair from her face,
chest rising and falling
like she had taken something from me
and was deciding whether to ask for more.

I looked at her
and wanted the ocean again.
Wanted her in it.
Wanted that black water up around our hips,
her hands on me,
my mouth gone stupid,
everything in me wrecked open
and shining.