You waited for me before you knew my name.
Until I was held in that wash of sunshine,
which lent us its final beams before sailing south
for winter. Wind white-capped the waves
and swirled the hair over your eyes. How easy
it was. We lay together as the rising tide formed
a space for us. We never noticed that ever-inching ocean.
How many waters have since circled our sands?
You waited for me in those many mornings before I awoke.
Your body, warm and tired, pressing against me as
the coming day crawls across our violet sheets:
the roar of the passing garbage truck, the shadows
of tree limbs rustling in the breeze, children’s bright
voices in the cold air. I nuzzle my head into the crook
of your arm. You laugh. You bring me closer.
How many dawns have since been soothed?
You waited with love before I knew what love was.
That afternoon, standing on worn wood, I watched
you run and dive into that sudden rush of heartbeat.
And I, moments before you arose, leapt after you.
Fate is just what happens, they say. So, all right,
it was our fate to surface here together, our eyelashes
dotted with droplets, our faces flushed, our teeth somewhere
between shivering and laughing. No more questions.
No more answers. I’ve loved you since before I knew you.
And I’ve always known you.
Oliver Egger is a contributing writer at the Boston Globe and the Provincetown Independent, where he was a 2023 summer fellow. He lives in New Haven, Conn.
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