On might have having had to help you out

It was when I asked you what you were doing this second right now and you had been  working on your report, when I ate three eggs, when you said I smelled more like me than I usually do but I was wearing my grandpa's sweater, cherry blossom season, undergraduate April, with sun that almost blesses but doesn't and with the hollow folds and refolds, fluctuations, ripples of suburbia and conifers, that we dove down again. And by that I mean we dove down, but also we never dove anywhere at all because really, we were in the darkness of your room and rolling every which way, and there was a monkey by the door and figures on the wallpaper, and empty bottles of tequila by the sink, and that goddamn basket light, and everything about us momentarily in a peculiar little tangle. What did you think, that I was going to sleep in my clothes? In my jeans? And what else did you think, that I did it begrudgingly, or indifferently, or lazily, or hurt? That I wasn't satisfied with it all, whatever it is? But we dove down again, like lighthouses finally bending in the twilight after a long while of patience, down into the ocean for a dip. And rolling in the water, we played together, awkward in our mass but swimming like seals and watching each other closely, having seen each other only at a distance for so long. We played, our little lighthouse lights happy for the new scenery, marine life in all its beauty, until ocean and twilight became just plain old indigo; and when I came up for air I realized it was okay because nothing, nothing, nothing, not a single thing, had dimmed.