Fly Line

You called me hook-shaped
and so I imagined my spine
contorting to groove itself
around the traction of your ribs,
lifting you writhing, glinting
in suspension above the surface,
where we are both adapting
to new air. I am careful
of your scars, desalinating each
with stolen sunlight as you
blanket my insecurities in
ripples of rhythmic tenderness.
I hold the line, though imagined
lures tug upward at the corners
of my own mouth, the ends
of cords stemming from riverbeds
encircling the black periods
of your eyes.

Believe me when I say,
I want neither to cook you
nor nail you to a board above
my mantle. I only hope that
when I am able to release,
you swim upstream
to reach and continue
alongside me.