Tangled amongst the warm white sheets and
smooth warm hours. Let our thoughts crash, here,
she said, on this pillow, let our dreams rise
together and fall, in forgetful foam.
There is a smooth song of sad hours yet to come
that arrives at the point of bliss, a
sad song then of pure separation, a siren song, blue
notes among strange rocks. I can never be quite you,
she said, in that happy moment, crying. And the warm
sun sets a tenor on the sea, pulls them apart, a harmony
of waves, lifted crushed joyfully in petty shells, now tangled
happy corpses on the tide, then pulls them back again.