He was seventeen and his lips tasted like the North Shore, his body warm like the sand he left behind all those years ago, the sand that made home between the glass walls and trickled down to join the rest as the days went by. And his arms were the ocean, and each time we lay resting, sweating in his bed, high tide came and dragged me under. The saltwater filled my lungs and I didn’t struggle to breathe — I wanted to drown. To get lost in the murky depths, to seek the secrets he hid in trenches with no need or want for him to guide me. Oh, god, how I wanted to find the scars that seeped through his soft skin and into his organs, the tissue that grasped his heart with tentacles and formed a barrier. And I wanted to kiss them, and remind him that he was beautiful inside and out. That he was everything to me — the rays of the sun on my skin, the rain that gathered in my cupped hand, the things that my dreams were made of. And on nights when his breath tickled my cheek as he slept next to me, and the bed creased beneath the weight of both of us tangled together with only a blanket covering our skin, I felt whole, complete. A ship lost at sea.
And I am a liar to ever think that the ocean belonged to me.