Boat. Watercraft. Impulse. Limited space on board.
Free from heart. Free from clothes. Drunk together for a swim. Errant, disinterested kiss, planted under the keel. A sparse ****** isosceles is struck. Parts are muted and slit-eyed. Parts are surface tension. Parts are counterparts. She pulls away, running below deck and vigorously brushing her teeth before weeping. The razor of night struggles to sleep. The sharp object thrown overboard. No one wants to be first or last.
"We're out of words and moons and stars, there's no tenderness in us..." she said. "When did our love become the stab of ultimatum?"