Last summer

we sat by the beach

and ate cucumbers

peeled and sliced thin

as leaves on pumpernickel bread.



On rainy days

we lifted boxes in the basement

and found leather-bound books

with creamy pages

softer than silk.



Your hair was long then.



I wore my cut-off shorts on sunny afternoons

and underneath

my black tank bathing suit.



At night you borrowed my terry cloth bathrobe

with the seashells on the pocket.



Last summer

we swam into the sea

and squinted deep

our eyes and noses just above the surface

and watched the sun

dip into the water.



I fell asleep to your breathing,

rough and constant, like the rushing tide.