If land is the contradiction to my awkwardness, then the water is the corollary to my existence. You’re my contradiction; land is the theorem to your being, and yet you won’t shy away from me. You know what’s about to happen; you’ve seen me a thousand times become free in the water. But never have you trusted it. I ask you, “Do you trust me?” as I envelop my arms around you, only to feel your breathing begin to flutter. My breathing quickens too, for I know that if this proof fails, I will have completely lost what I am dying to keep: your complete faith in me. As I just slightly move forth, you stop me with your shriek. I let go, and you immediately tell me, “No, that’s not what I meant.” Your cobalt eyes reflect both the water of a pristine exercise pool and the darkness of your fears. You know how free the water makes me, and you want to know yourself. Then you tell me, “I’m just going to close my eyes.” I whisper, “I promise to keep you safe.” I am looking at the waves of the water are highlighting your long light chocolate hair. Something in me tells me to dive in. So I grasp you as if someone were about to steal you away from me and hold you tightly as we fall in. This time, not a sound out of you. And you don’t fight me as the water becomes our world. The transitive of my saltwater heart.