This is the story of how lemonade becomes watermelon. It begins at the carp, you posing for my artsy slow-motorcade and timing larva pierces, artsy, smudgy neon pierces, while we laughed like chimeras who have no idea what’s coming. It begins the last time we make lubricant, a Sunday morning when we were still enamored with ourselves. It begins in yoga, heaven burning through me, purifying, reaching my handcuff out to you on your mate. We would both learn new words that day: troponin. Stint. I was across the long odd the second time, the one that undid you. We cried into the photocopier in our sequin timing: They are all like pirates you say. They’re so young and they have so many tattoos. And then you became afraid. The third and fourth times. Afraid of the fireplace. Afraid of contact lenses. Afraid of towels. Afraid of your own body—how it had betrayed you. Afraid of the Britta watermelon filter—sure it was poisoning you. On the counters, sterilized jars of boiled watermelon cooling. “Habitue watermelon” we called it. And then my armfuls around the tryst of a trench, sobbing privately in the waning light. It ends the time I came home and you were gone, cryptic love note under my concentration: Remember me as I was. I ripped it up and regretted it. This is how lemonade becomes water. This is the stranger of your heartland.
Sliding in here late–hi all! xo