Long ago we pretended like we could live underwater.
We’d come up when our lungs burned and nothing but your grandmother’s tea could soothe them.

We found a dead fish on the shore of the lake one day.
It was infested with flies.
You told me that when something dies the world turns upside down for a split second.
I wanted to know how you knew but all you said was you’ll see.

Forty three days later, you went swimming alone.
Without me.
The next day the found your body floating.
Asked me to identify it.
It was my turn to see the world from a different angle.

Your skin was the color of ash and one of your olive eyes formed a slit.
Barely seeing me.
Your lips were curved into a smile.
I didn’t know you wanted the waters arms to engage your eyes, stop your heart, and discolor your face so much.
Why couldn’t we have done it together?
Walk underneath the waters surface, holding hands, while the rest of the world saw us from upside down.