I meet you again at the closing seaside hotel. I refuse to return to identity through love.

I hear your laugh cross the closing seaside hotel before I see you.

I carry salt damp linen between us when our eyes meet.

I see a brass room key resting in your palm.

I understand that I need to recognize myself beside us.

I remain beside you as the guest book shows a room you reserved for two.

I ask the smallest question with the largest history.

I see your fingers tighten around a brass room key.

I remember your thumb tracing calm into my wrist.

I resent the body for keeping what the future refused.

I place identity through love between us and ask you not to soften it.

I watch apology gather behind your teeth.

I touch a brass room key to keep my hands from reaching for you.

I follow your words until they reach what you decided.

I understand the wound when I became fluent in your needs and mute in mine.

I breathe through the second that rearranges us.

I move toward the drained pool because the room has become too small.

I freeze as your palm finds the center of my back.

I let our foreheads nearly touch.

I hold still while your final words gather.

I reach for you inside the closing seaside hotel, but I became fluent in your needs and mute in mine.