Gone, West, a silhouette behind an orange face, that half
lit horizon, a half closed eye, stirring up the evening tides, as I wait
morning
She sail on the warm blue tongues of lapping water,
sunburned, blistered, like a pirate ship, holding in its hole the pieces of my shattered
heart, time dividing us with each kilometer, while I stroll the widow’s walk,
staring, already waterlogged from too many stormy winters past, her thin
fingers lifted, this sad gesture before the dark comes.
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