It’s funny how the ferryman never mentioned that he would stop
carrying me to the Southern Isles.
Where we would both lie and smile, as the waves
lapped our toes and the seagulls flocked in droves.
Where the flowers would bloom at just a touch,
where the people cared but not too much,
and the sun lazed idle in the sky.
A star burning honey with our love.
It’s funny that he packed up shop and fled to
the Keys,
where he knew I couldn’t follow.
What a coward
That man.
Oh! how I weeped for days
as the black sand swallowed me,
turning soft honey soaked skin to
gray stone,
lips to molten magma.
Your tangerine hands didn't find my sculpted stone face,
didn’t wipe the painful seaborn tears from my cheeks with a soft sweet swipe
of your thumb.
You stayed
unmoving
on your sweet paradise,
head lulled in incoming of another tender grape,
while I broke and crumbled.
Another particle of midnight sand on the night beach,
a place the sun never wanted to touch.
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