Empty Swimming Pool

I'm wearing more pink and writing more letters.

My matching rose lipstick kissed onto the stamp.

I wrote you down so I could keep you, somehow.

Then tucked you in a box I'll never open.

For how else could we live forever, darling–

but within paper sheets?

My signature has changed since us, but so has the weather.

My overflowing swimming pools have run dry.

The summer heat drawing it into clouds

to float away from the never-shy sun.

They spilled over for so long–you left the hose on.

Then broke the tap with her.

I assumed an empty pool would be miserable.

Having nothing left but the shape of what

used to be.

Yet–

It is so peaceful sitting here,

cross-legged on the tile.

Cold–against the back of my head, like your whispers.

Staring at the vastness of summer.

Some people ask why I don't refill the porcelain tub–

how pretentious it is of me.

But California dreaming with you felt like drowning.

Didn't we move to LA to be close to the ocean, anyway?

All these holes we dig in the grass

to fill with chemicals to float in.

I want to curl my toes in the sand–

in this hourglass we live in.

Grain by grain falling into time lost.

Salt skin like our tears. Slowly breathing in at dusk.

No longer needing to keep my head above the water.

Or you pushing it down.

No more gasping for breath.

Or you making waves.

No liquid glass to see you reflect in.

Just an empty swimming pool.

With only me. To reflect in.