The sky replaced where your eyes once were. The clouds drift over the ground where your head lies and sun glasses rest. Are your eyelids open? I can't see anything, except for the reflection of the ocean twice over. I've begun to confuse my ups and downs since we started sitting here.

We've been here so long that the grass has grown up around us. Beneath our bodies, yours outstretched and mine pretzeled, the grass yellows in death. I pick at a weed that vines itself around your wrist. I feel your flinch long before I see it. I know we are still here for a reason. I move with uncertainty, and you move with a hurried assurance that we both know doesn't match the weather.

Like robins we search for worms. We're the bird's careful ears and sharp beaks. The soil must echo our attempts to draw out long sentences from one another. Does it matter we eat grubs instead? "Tell me something. Don't be beautiful."

Your dry summer lips open. "I imagine thunderstorms. At night, lighting breaks outside sleeping windows. The electricity illuminates dreams. I've seen past your countenance. Skipping stones always ripple the water."

Overhead, the sun burns my pale skin.