Pool (No Water)

If the sky were the sea, I would drown.

But I don't tell him that. I don't tell him that I can't swim. It seems trivial somehow, in this moment, because he's looking at me, and smiling. He's asking me never to leave him. His face is so close to mine that I can feel the flutter of his eyelashes.

To be perfectly honest, that's never happened before.

I remember once when I was six, this girl in my class invited me to a pool party for her birthday. And I wanted to go so badly. So I did. She lived in one of those exclusive neighborhoods with its own pool, where you can't paint your house any color but beige, and the water rippled with the promise of a whole new world underneath.

I jumped.

Immediately, water had gathered at the back of my throat. I choked, chlorine filling my eyes and lungs. It felt as if nothing quite made sense.

That's sort of how I feel right now.

The next time I jumped into a pool, it was empty. But I don't say that either. Instead, I lean in just a little closer, and whisper, "I won't."