It's the third
cup of coffee
and my hands
have never
been so
warm

where Seattle's
grey's
enchanting and
Bainbridge island's
in your eyes
again

I'd run down
Alaska
run up the angled
stairs,
cemented,
orca paintings
plastered overhead
and step my toes on-
to the ferry
where
your cigarette in hand's
releasing steam like it's
sailing away with me
too

the gulls are crying
&
inside I'm
crying too
because
I exist
in Washington
on
a ferry who can't stop
going back for
you.