the other fish and you

I take a friend to see you and the other fish. it's a novelty for both of us. we haven't been to an aquarium in years. the tanks are just as big as I remembered, stretching over us in arches of water and other creatures I don't understand. the jellyfish glow fluorescent in dark tanks, moving effortless as breathing. I think about glowing in the dark with you. we rode our bikes through the witching hours to the park by the prison. I sang my silly songs into the wind who carried them to you. by the lake I raced you to the top of the playground. you glowed through my hands and I didn't think about the rug / the water / tomorrow. you glowed so much that there was nothing else and I was glowing too.

we find you at the rock pools teaching kids about the starfish. your face opens for their questions with a warmth I want to bottle. we wait our turn and follow you back through the tunnels of tanks. you introduce us to some of your favourite fish, calling them your friends. walking slowly by your side our hands brush and your little finger coils in mine. we listen to you talk about the crocodile before you say goodbye.

on the other side of the river we lie on the bank in the dregs of the afternoon sun. I think about how unremarkable it is to feel this way, to care and want and dream and dread. I think about becoming an afterthought and then a stranger again. I think about the fact I never think about these things until you're gone. the sun sinks and we move a little further to take as much as we can before it goes. we talk about not knowing how to be with ourselves and our constant need to fill every moment with some kind of sound. a funny thought to be so scared of our thoughts / something we can never truly shake. at least it's nice to laugh about.

I bury treasure under the railway bridge. you don't find it. I hope it's still waiting there for you tomorrow.