"She trusts me," I overhear you say
on one of the many calls you walk outside to take,
and some smooth stone slips over my heart.
Your eyes, which held such sweetness, now look caged.
I miss the graceful swing of the string between us:
the simple kiss, quiet first, then asking for more.
"I only want you to be happy," felt sincere,
so easy, but now, I don't know.
Your tongue on mine is thick
and drunk from crying
as I reach my hand to yours.
We tryst, we sweat and moan, the sea itself;
drowning all thoughts in this pitching cauldron.
In the morning, through the blinds,
a shy lavender light,
laced with butterscotch
and dusty mullien
a sweet Sargasso
of weedy down
on your face,
swirling in a gyre
around your grave
and silent lips