It is cold and wet, like the inside of your mouth, and he is big and smiling at you on the sidewalk. It had rained yesterday. He is glass, but not the type of glass you have heard about before, fragile and delicate and easy to break. He is not like that, no; he is big and glass and beaming and the tips of your fingers are damp. You ask yourself if you are nervous (you are); you ask yourself if he makes you nervous (he does) (he is); so you swallow and look up to the sky. It is heavy, and dark, like the things you are afraid of, like the things that weigh on your heart. It is heavy and dark and you swallow, you talk about it. You talk about the things that you fear (darkness) (heaviness) (he, too far away and too close) and you are desperate to get dry again—desperate to return behind the line, where he will wave goodbye and his gaze will linger and you will turn away before he can say more. His mouth is small and pale and it makes your heart pace like hurricane; you are the glass now, easy to shatter and easy to touch, especially when his fingers wrap around yours and he tells you to be quiet, he’s going to kiss you now. The sound around your ears are the vibrations beneath the earth’s crust and he waits (for you) (to say no) (to pull away) and you are shaking, so close to breaking apart, and you say okay the moment the sky splits open.
He is cold and wet, big and smiling. You taste the inside of his mouth.
