A Skilled Sailor

There’s a ship
in the mist
of my heart
that made it
safe to harbor.
When he holds me
he can smell
the salt in my hair;
feel the damp
in my bones.
I let him touch me.
His hands are warm —
I imagine what
they will look like one day,
lined with time,
patched with scars.
He moves my hair
out of my face
so I can picture him
perfectly:
he stands
at the helm.
Sometimes I try
to apologize,
but he only kisses me
and says,
It’s been such a long trip,
hasn’t it?
(Hasn’t it…)
There is wind between us,
tides, and shells.
Seaweed.
Sand.
There is time.
A lot of it.
His body.
Mine.
And our laughter
like the moon
that keeps drawing us back
to the same place,
over and over
again.

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