from the lighthouse

25 Sep

there isn’t proof
late summer sweat
warm wood planks and
naked feet
of the way your moonlit fingers
looked
pulling in the fishing lines
from your
sleek
black
snake
of a boat
or of the way
your swagger made two shadows
one judging
one cradling the world
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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