Nowadays, I use this pen

to resurrect

your touch.

The ink of its point

lending itself to the pores

of this parchment.

but it's not what you think;

or what you may have heard

from forsaken, disheveled Mother Discord.

Oh my love how your boat did sail

timidly from the coast

of my bay

departing from these subtle expressions.

Expressions that your eyes never

saw,

and your lashes never

began to see.

It's strange you know, how these midnight days

fade into morning,

just but dull memories of your sailor's cap.

Tell the captain

Bon voyage,

you're staying

here with

me.

Oh please pleasant shipmate, remove that name

from your list

A flick of your pen

will set my love

free.

But the ship resented my humble bay,

matching the feelings of your apathy.

And the stones of my shore,

were thrown in the wake of your obligation.

But oh sometimes I wonder,

what time would have to say?

If you decided to stay-

atop that cliff,

extricating from yourself a simple if

and how you let yourself arise that morning

while you left your front door open, the neighbors scorning

knowing that you were living

a final

ephemeral life

in your sea of plenty,

to end you strife.

and then you clumsily spilt your beloved ice tea,

(a mixture of your sweat and the salt from your sea)

on the blouse of that girl,

before you fell;

citrus bleeding into the afternoon sunset.