fire in the fields

15 Nov

there isn’t a picture of us
late summer sweat
warm wood planks and
naked feet
of the way your thick fingers
pulling in the fishing lines
from your
of a boat
or of the way
your swagger made two shadows
one feminine
one masculine
both cracked in half once again
(and then again)
there is no physical evidence
that i once stole away on your vessel
hid myself inside a locket
under your sailor ropes
yet here you are
barnacled to
my heart
as real as
the saltwater
you once whistled
into a tornado




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