it occurs to me that i am america.

"it’s not your fault," shreve jokes, later, and presses fingers against the inside of my arm, "that you’re a proper southern lady." and i smiled wry and twisted, moved my hand away on the sheets, twisted it into the air. i wanted to say something, because didn’t i come from a long line of proper southern ladies, but i think and think and turn my head away. is caddie a lady, is she a lady. you. it’s you that’s beautiful. why can’t i make you see what you’re worth. lips on the tips of my fingers, and i don’t turn away, the way i do sometimes. let them talk. i feel less empty now. the water doesn’t run through my skin. our feet are rough from our young years on rock and dirt. i don’t feel the pain, if there’s any pain.you weren’t there when i was growing up, and i think that helps. if i remembered you there, it wouldn’t be right to do this. i don’t know how to tell you, tell you that when i fall asleep close by it’s mostly you, before i wake. it’s not them until i am alone. you fall asleep on the grass, in sleep, and you’re not her. a pin through your stomach and a fire in your mouth. your arms are longer, against green black, one hand curled behind your head.

i touch you, in sleep. i stay closer, and the moths find rest in the curve of your bare hipbone. like i should now, when i cannot find the words to say what you do to me, what you do when you don’t realize. like i should instead of lingering.

"delicate." shreve whispers, softly, not quite mocking. "i think that’s it, hmm." he doesn’t have to hesitate with me. i lean into a gesture, raising my head to accept a sharp, wet kiss, a hand on my collarbone. cold water, river water, sliding on the sun white rocks. he arches his body over mine. my toes on the edge, waiting.