Your body took mine on a slow dance, slow motion four days milliseconds stopped to whistle. You, in my ear too, with your songs of the weather: we meet the hurricane with camellia headbands to water from left to right. Some of your vessel had fell into mine – it buoyed, that naked sea.
I only knew about your skin and bones how it bubbled when burned, a bacteria bathtub and that your eyes became less than caramel rather a stern grey. I gathered sand. It made you a beach devastated by summer squalls.
Next morning, a fog was caught in my throat – thieved from those red-veined orbs. The sheets said you tossed and turned while I dreamt but I still awoke to your lips coupling my neck.
Lovers do not walk or limp, you maintained and so there was a waltz beneath rain – time paused as we sped up but the tide did not stop crashing.
I really dislike this poem, but I guess it couldn't hurt to post it anyway. Maybe some day I will get around to fixing it up.