“We should run away to Spain,”
you said,
“the food’s cheap
and I love the culture.”

So those pink lips of yours led me
by the inside of my wrist
over
seas.

Lesser in our crimes than Bonnie and Clyde,
we robbed the world only
of ourselves.
At first.

That summer, we were bandits –
stealing moments, hearts,
that bikini,
ciel-green like the water and your eyes.

The sun and wind,
and your oiled hands,
lacquered us the color of stranger sands
than I had seen before I knew you.

We should have left that necklace,
pale gold like the one ringlet of your hair
that falls across your face,
the stone as black as her eyes were.

Every outlaw who falls, falls to pride

I did, you must believe me, love you
my
darling.
Whatever you ran with me –
I wonder why it was me
– from, you escaped
and I loved you for that, as
I was never free.
When you brushed that golden lock
aside, you felt it,
though it had lurked in the quiet moments
all along, that I fled the inescapable –
that in all the sun and wide plains and our little shack and the sway of your **** I saw only
her.