dear caroline,

my heart washed up
onto the shores of your feet,
in front of your
naked toes
slipper'ed in the sand.
accidental? maybe!
without course? possible!
nature's perhaps!

brought not in a cyclone
of thunder and sea
thrashing the sands of
cornwall,
but on one innocent blue,
subtle,
a whisper of a wave,
one that
caresses the black rocks
of a tidal pool
and tickles the grains
of a beach,
sometimes teasing your skin
in a silent sun
with infant ebbs and drifts.

and my heart lay there
on the shores of your feet,
in front of your
naked toes
slipper'ed in the sand,
swollen and delivered,
young and orphaned;
tattered from bobbing
in crests and troughs,
wounds stuffed with
crusted salt
and skin burnt dry
from too many lonely days.

your curious hands
lifted it to your eyes,
poking it with questions
of authenticity;
and origins.
'how does it still breathe
with such a humble
and fainting beat?'
then,
your lips tasted
flesh, sweet fresh
flesh;
a reincarnated childhood
of unbound desire.
thirsty, you loved
it,
in you,
like a puppy in its
first garden of estate
lawn and spring flowers.

my heart lay in your hands.

wild with happiness
it bounced erratic,
spontaneous,
jumping with words
from its soul
and a treasure of secrets
for you to hear,
but,
in a language
you could not;
nor value.

and, in the blink,
you parted your hands
scared and wide
and it fell through
the thick air of hours,
belonging to days
born too long.

and, my heart washed away
from the shores of your feet,
in front of your
naked toes
slipper'ed in the sand,
by yet another quiet cradle
of a sipping wave;
your beauty fading
among the shrinking trees
and disappearing sun,
unless you learn
to swim.