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You were here,
hearing the squeaky, sandy stop sign,
a sign of our saturated reds bleeding
through thin and dull and boney lines;
you gave quick kisses now impelling a belief of mine:
that ignorance might be bliss, if I could be allowed to forget.

You are here,
hearing in a shell the laps of the sea,
seeing children plaiting the rusty hair
of our mermaids—a splash of our old;
but now you're begging at my trousers' roll:
"Stay right here with me!"—so I catch the waves
that endlessly beat at my eardrums.

You will be here, hearing my silence one last time,
thyme in your nostrils, bitter salt in your eyes—
and those drops will make a sea out of your pupils
(you'll be a teacher to take my rapt attention,
and turn me upside down with a new conception,
so, in the following static, I become lost).

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The following comments are for "Little Coastlines are Dangerous Things"
by macman202

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