OK, "Estuary."
I keep asking myself why but I don't know the answer
to the question until I'm caught in a river
of my own design, whose banks are lined with water.
You were moving out, the entire sky
leans over as the ocean rubs his gray eyes into the feast
between your legs.
We meet briefly where current and tide
intersect, lowering promises around each other's necks.
It is what we wanted, but not what we expected.
They only seem to help us sink.