You Were Not An Aquarium Boy

Sea-glass became your bones,
brine your blood, and seashells
melded into your skin.

You were not quite an ocean
when you said "This is your sign to love me."

My body was like a building;
tall, cold, almost unbreakable.
I was metallic and sharp,
towering over your waters.

I remember taking your hand in mine,
conch and coral shells scrubbing
my skyscraper wrists, and laughing
about how one day you would
submerge every last bit of me.

Your lips, riddled with argonauts,
found my cheek and I cringed
at the coarseness.

You asked if they bothered me
and I finally told you "I
think I love you."