there’s a certain poetry to
persistent heartache
don’t you agree, captain?

finding myself more afraid
of the dark than
flames creeping ever closer to
my skin from the torch
i still carry for you

maybe it makes me a fool
but i’d rather be had in
any capacity you can offer
than to abandon ship now

and i know the captain goes
down with the ship

but what is a captain
without his crew,
and what rank would i have
on my own?

still so many question
and no good answers
beyond mumbled apologies

finding myself pulled
between the ocean and the moon
but always ending up
back by your side

and what would
you call that, captain?
loyalty,
foolishness,
love?

maybe love is too tender
leaves no room for
empty bottles of *** and whiskey
lashing rain against blackened sails

there are bite marks in my
knuckles i know you won’t notice
and that’s okay, too
no need to complicate things

maybe we’ll just simplify it
down to saying that what
i crave is adventure
when what i really mean is
you

oh, captain of mine
what i really mean is
you

what poet
and furthermore what bard
worth his salt
isn’t at least
a little bit in love
with his muse?

seems a common affliction
for an artist
a love compounded by inks
and thread and a voice thickened
by tears left un-shed

there is nothing to cry about
though, beyond all the silly ways
i’ve found to break my own heart

wishing i could put the blame
on you but knowing this
metaphorical blood is solely
on my own two shaking hands

and maybe that’s my lot
in this life, at least
sleepless nights on my own
yearning to rest my head on
your shoulder and knowing
that you’ll let me every time

and maybe i wrote you
with softer edges
and a smile just for me
and i broke my own
silly little bardling heart
wide open with no help
from anyone at all

because, my love, while
the truth of the matter is
that i love you
have loved you
as a poet and a bard
to his muse

there has always been
so much more than
these words i put down on
paper, knowing you
will never read them
and i will never offer
to speak them aloud
again

for you never were my love
though, it is bold of
me to call you so
and not just from an artistic
standpoint either
but out of a misguided hope

or something just as silly
like a poet and a bard
falling in love with his muse
and mistaking it for
the real thing

the captain asks if you
think the moon misses him
as much as he misses the moon
and your stomach lurches
but not because of the crashing waves

must you be in competition with
something as great as la luna?
millions of miles away
when you are right here
the captain’s right hand man

is that really fair?
who would you ask
if not the captain
and the moon refuses to answer
while the sea only cries
out your name

there is something besides
the captain that is
begging you to return home

and you wonder if a
wolf loves the moon the
same way you could
love a man

torn between wanting that
coldness of the open ocean
on your skin
and craving the captain’s
mouth on your own

is that a selfish thing,
you want to ask,
willing and wanting to follow
the captain
your captain
across the oceans and the constellations?

so be it, then
you tell yourself
because you will remain
after the *** is gone
and the moon has fled
the night sky

you will remain
tethered to the captain
to your captain
and the promise he carries
of the open ocean
with the open sky above

stinging and salty spray
off the bow of a weather beaten ship
let alone the freezing shock
of ocean waves
has not touched my skin
in six long years

and i am ready, my love
thick ropes of scars
begging to be touched by
the cold of the open ocean

i wonder if all that
clear blue water
hiding so much below the tide
has missed me, too

i am a parched man
laying in the middle of the desert
thinking of her lips on mine
my face in her neck
her sharp sharks teeth leaving
pin-****** in my shoulder blades

and i know i have not loved
a man, nor a woman
like i have loved the sea
knowing that great uncaged
beast runs through my veins
always welcome and wanting

my love, never meant to be tamed
fills a void in me
right below my rib cage
packed with salty kelp and sand
if the infection doesn’t **** me
then the longing surely will

for the sea
she knows what i desire
and it sounds something
like please

something like home
something like you
something like you you you

i split myself open
and it wasn’t poetic
and it wasn’t for you

was it a gurney i spent
two hours laying on
intubated and unconscious?

remember sinking under
feeling naked without
any metal in my face and ears

i put my trust in the
hands of a surgeon
freeing me up with a scalpel

didn’t ask what my ribs
looked like
even though i was curious

could he see my heart?
did he see a body that could be
made into a home again?

the poet that i am
would like to think so
that he pressed a key into my hands

this key carved from flesh
and bone and bruised ribs
finally a welcome kind of pain

this pain of something new
thick scars like a promise
like coming home
after so long

what kind of love
do i think i deserve?
a thing that yields poems
sweet platitudes and flowery words
but no romance
a loveless and lonely
kind of something?

and sure, love can be elating
wouldn’t be such a popular topic
of poems and songs and ballads
if it weren’t

but an unforgiving love
can be such a hollow feeling
like having my chest opened
and emptied
and sewn up again

and i know what that’s really like, too
but this kind of love is more numbing
than cut nerve endings
and the scars that that leaves

glad to have never been in love
since there are only so many ways
to say that you’ve made me cry
and make it sound appealing
but a bard with a broken heart
is something no one wants to see
a broken heart yields no coin

but my heart is weak
my heart is wanting
and i am helpless
in the face of how i feel
how i ache
how i yearn
for you

singing your praises
like any good bard would do
even though you’ve never liked poetry
and isn’t that just my luck,
my love?

unrequited love is all well
and good in songs
written out as a poem
a sonnet
a ballad
but the reality hurts

the only heart i’ve ever
broken is my own
which, i guess that’s not
such a bad track-record

and what kind of poet
a wanna-be bard
would i be if i didn’t
think or speak with my mind
but with my heart
my love?

but i have grown tired
of licking my wounds
always hoping for hands
that are more steady than my own
to take this hurt from me

and i am so full of love
yours for the taking, always
i’d give you my heart if i could
better with a knife than with blood
but that’s a risk i’m willing to take

i ache, i ache, and i ache
not entirely knowing what for
maybe out of longing
something akin to wanting?
an answer only i can give

but i still don’t know
what the question could be
and so words die on my tongue
afraid of smothering you under
the weight of whatever
this is