green water, black water

There was a lake, I was in it. The water was bottle-green and so calm, smooth as bedsheets. I swam out until I was alone. The sunlight glinted off the surface in white spangles as far as I could see, and I stopped to tread water and drink in the glory. My feet kicked the ice-coldness five feet down. I shifted to my back and stared up at the sky. It was bottomless. My eyes couldn't focus on it.
 I  thought about a boy, and I thought about the overwhelming beauty all around me. I wondered if this is the broken heart that all the songs talk about.

Later, after the sun set that night, I set out into the darkness and swam again. The moon was huge and close and almost full. I swam in its reflection, fragmented in the black water. I swam out far enough to see the fireworks going off over another cove. The water held me up. It was silk; I was alone. I watched the glittery lights of docks shatter on the other shore. I was at peace, for the moment.

But before that, back in the sunlight, I was staying afloat as best I could. When my thoughts got too heavy, I rolled over. The water was a kiss. I turned around and swam for home.