I am sinking quietly
under the waves as
you sink beside the
bunk beds in your
room. One misstep and
I fell right off the dock.
I'd only meant to
dip my toes in, but
you know how it goes.
You sank beside the
bed when I opened
my stupid fat mouth.
I asked, "How much
time do we have?"
and I guess you
thought I meant together.

Did you know
the number thirty-seven
is the numerical
value of "I
am" in Hebrew?
There are thirty-seven
years left, or days,
or moments,
because with you
time passes too slowly
and too quickly, all at once,
and so I never know where I stand.
Thirty-seven minutes still
unwatched in this film
before you kick me out.
We're hushed, but your
friends are not. They seem
to know an awful lot.
They're giving us the
clamorous treatment, and
though I wish they were wordless
I know what would happen
if we were in relative silence
for the next thirty-seven minutes.

(I'd open my mouth
and water would rush in,
and the last of my breath,
well.
It would rush
from the confines
of my mouth,
carrying words--
and, indeed,
even my breath adores you;
not much about me can resist.
I would drown
surrounded by the questions
I can't bring myself to ask.
But your friend danced.
I watched her;
she swayed
when the music played,
and my eyes followed her
but not because
my heart had strayed.
Could you feel
the absence of my eyes?
Could you tell
I was trying not to drown?)