Eelgrass is stripped bare from south shores - Once bountiful and glistening in the October spangled winds, long before They gathered in a silent understanding.
Instinct in formation tells them of a Warmth beyond these waves. Tides swelling And black necks straining. Tomorrow the shore Is empty. The coastline weeps and waits For leaves to fall again, in shorter days.
There is a tantalus, double-locked in The cellar - and only I have the key. It is brimming with the finest, aged memories Of abandonment and acrimony. Self-confessed alcoholic. I lick my lips - Months since I tasted it. How the Memory of bitterness turns to Fraudulent bliss when restricted.
This time, I refrain instinctive desire And place the key on-top of the fridge. ‘I’m fine’ I say aloud - and I am - until I take a sip.
It smelled of dew when he held me down and unbuckled my belt. I saw the moon when he pressed my chest into the ground. When he whispered 'please' I didn't hear melodies. I didn't hear anything but breathing; silence. I tasted absinthe. Anything but breathing. Silence? I didn't hear. I didn't hear. Melodies, when he whispered 'please' into the ground. He pressed my chest when I saw the moon, and unbuckled my belt when he held me down. It smelled of dew.