First Red, then Blue

I watched him hit the ball
and it was rough.
But he was fascinating
in the way that otters were,
lithe and destructive,
swimming around the rivers
in ways that only fish were allowed to.

He hit the red one first,
and then the blue.
The cue was loose in his hands,
yet it hit with precision.
Every single shot he made
I didn't make,
I was too distracted
by the bridge of his nose,
his shoulder rippling under the shirt
I got him for his birthday.

And I imagined us as strangers
sharing a game together,
walking around each other,
the road to hell paved with eggshells
and a bright blue bird
that sang to us out of a box.

But we weren't strangers
so I leaned over close to him
and gave him a kiss.
One game too many,
one game too few,
I guess walking around hitting balls
gave us something to do.