Postcard Sent from Underwater

All this time and I never considered a love poem. You don’t particularly like poetry anyhow unless it’s Lana del Rey or some other darling pop star devilishly devoted to palm trees and Pepsi cans. So I felt a love poem for you would seem farcical, too phony, but I then remembered all the evenings I had asked you to turn off the TV, to turn down the music, and said, Let me read this to you, this poem I love, and you listened.
Earlier today I was underwater, thinking about light and the way it lilts and leaps across the pool’s bottom, and I was thinking about you, too, like light, the way your body waves when dancing, the way you laugh and illuminate each little space you occupy, like a projector of light, little holes shaping sapphire and sea surf across walls and ceilings and all the spaces they intersect. What is light exactly? What is love? A poem perhaps. One in which I’d interrupt your day to read to you out loud. Words written by light, not in the way a photo is written by light but the way sunbeams cut clean through water as if carving beacon-esque aubades with its being. Because being is everything it needs to be. And later, when I think of the double-slit experiment, I grow lightheaded. Because light was once thought to be one or the other, either waves or particles but never both, which is to say, the poem exists regardless, in two places at once, roaring yet unwritten, both read and unread, in tiny waves, in the quiet retreat of water, and later, in an urgent gulp of air.