I can imagine it all like it’s still happening. Hot, summer days; sweaty longing, damp beach-towels, sandy feet. Like it’s all still happening. Like it never stopped happening. Skin pulled taut across a muscled underbelly, shining, shimmering heat. Pool water that never stopped shining, even if I thought it was a bit over the top for the time and place. It’s just summer – it's just a bit of heat. It’s not that important. I don’t think so at least. You know, I don’t think of myself as such a winter person. I don’t define myself in those ways – summer child, winter baby, pumpkin-spice latte drinker – I think it’s a little reductive to think of yourself as what you like or dislike. Rather, I suppose I consider myself a bit of a connoisseur of all things. I like and I hate, I mildly enjoy and I despise. Things are abhorrent and things are beautiful, and neither of those states are necessarily forever. Sometimes they’re passing. I hate the summer heat, but I like the summer heat in the evening, when we sit out on the porch and drink water with ice. I can’t stand the feeling of water on my skin, but I don’t mind it when it’s because I was standing behind you as you jumped into the pool, legs drawn to your chest, arms wrapped around them, like you were scared you’d fall apart otherwise. I don’t mind skin, but I’ll pretend I don’t like it so you can peel it off my chicken legs and eat it for yourself. For you, perhaps, I find myself changing in ways I never imagined myself to change, and even in the most insignificant ways. I wonder who this reflects. Is this the new me, or is this a temporary me I play just to fill some kind of role for you? Is this someone I’m becoming, or is this a character I’m playing to fit comfortably amongst your theatrics? When I let my breath escape me, where does it go? Does it dissipate slowly into the air around us, or does it circle back around, tap me on my shoulder, punch – or stroke – my cheek as it re-enters my body; never fully escaping me, never fully consuming me. Just circling. I watch you in your rubber ring, unicorn head at the front, piercingly bright pink floating in the neon blue, lying on your back. I imagine the bump of your spine gazing down into the water, watching the squares sleep below you, while your body faces upwards. Your face looks up, but you don’t. Your eyes are closed. Your fingers and the bottoms of your feet dipping into the cool reprieve from the heat. But I don’t have that luxury. I don’t want it much either. Instead, I stand by the side of the pool. I imagine myself like a humming fly, too scared to drift too close to the sweet nectar of somebody else’s summer buffet. I imagine myself as a lonely deck chair, empty, or fleeing inflatable ball, boundless, or empty bottle of sun cream, useless. I imagine myself in all sorts of ways, forms, positions, beings. I imagine myself so endlessly. So timelessly. You float on. I imagine myself speaking. I imagine myself asking. I imagine you, silent.