His kiss tasted of trepidation,
like the first toe
in the water,
tender,
slow,
suspicious.
His lips had moved
like the slipping backs of dolphins,
his hands’ movements
like trembling swells.

I told him it was “okay,”
that the depths of this
unknowing
did not bother me,
that I was ready to strap on
Infatuation’s scuba gear
and go exploring
beneath the surface.

But still he stumbled,
pulled away with the fear
of a child by the poolside,
a little boy who had once floundered
too far off the deep end.

It’s from this distance I can tell
the dive I’ll make is futile.
For in his face and shifting stature,
I know the eyes of one who will not swim today.