This bed is a ship

This bed is a ship is a sporadically updated internet journal, 
a home for odd scraps of writing.

10/18/2017

crying at wavy leaves trembling, catching an eye like a frozen Nordic pond
I consider drowning: emerging from the deep heat of a birch wood sauna
bare sinews stretched and slicked with sweat
plunging into cold blue waters
simply sinking there
numb toes in silt
a ghost

committed to loving a stranger
who ever remains resident
in some foreign country I cannot access
where his body sways two feet from mine

my stare grows small limbs to clamber over the back of his neck
my heart streaking wet thuds across a pockmarked table
straining to nestle between head and shoulder
a sloppy gargoyle of devotion, all full of dark blood

until he notices and moves away
replaced by little bits of leaves, cigarette butts
sticking like straw to open ended wounds
watching from behind as he walks off
I look at his face and suddenly realize--
we are older than we were when this began. 

Sid BrancaComment