It had all started when he told her what her insides looked like underwater.
She had squirmed and wiggled. He begged her to be still. To stop being the surface area; become the dimensions. She struggles with depth-her sea would only allow itself to be a swirling pool amidst some labyrinth of warm lagoons.
He craves the metal that permeates the water's cells after a shipwreck. He is the century that comes after.
She opens up the message in the bottle and spits it back across a very small lake when they have lost all of their smooth pebbles. She is the moon's indecision on most days of the month.
He sees blues and greens at all points of the afternoon. He draws the sails on the back of cardboard so brown that she can nearly taste the bark in her cider.
She wants him to see the lines of her outsides.
She wishes that he would hoist her up to the top of mast and make her silhouette into a dot-to-dot piece.