High seas, low swells.
Sea over you, sea clawing me,
spitting and submitting.
Your nails draw maps across
my back, but still
three weeks sailing alone,
and you, two days. I’m sick.
This cell, this matchbox bed,
stretching and pummeling,
yet you won’t wash off.
Over easy, warm salt
waters flow so no
soot covers me,
just sweat, and the wine
you spilled.
–
tjq
