At the old hotel
the one by the wharf
with the peeling paint
(those clapboard memories
that linger as summer does)
we traveled to exotic lands
foreign for these travelers.
Our fingers were the compass that led the way
for two fugitives sailing silken waves.
Your hair was morphine
in the sweetest way,
Your lips were like ice
on a hot summer day.
We never questioned the reasons why
the afternoon crumbled us into dust.
Yet I recall the handful you took from me,
and you recall the teaspoon I took from you.
On the pier I was cast to the wind,
and on the shore I let my passion burn you
into a diamond.
Goodbye.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 2:54 AM UTC
At the old hotel
the one by the wharf
with the peeling paint
(those clapboard memories
that linger as summer does)
we traveled to exotic lands
foreign for these travelers.
Our fingers were the compass that led the way
for two fugitives sailing silken waves.
Your hair was morphine
in the sweetest way,
Your lips were like ice
on a hot summer day.
We never questioned the reasons why
the afternoon crumbled us into dust.
Yet I recall the handful you took from me,
and you recall the teaspoon I took from you.
On the pier I was cast to the wind,
and on the shore I let my passion burn you
into a diamond.
Goodbye.
Request permission to use this poem