cinaed

for John Fogelman

There are some things we just don't talk about--

Not even in the morning, when we're waking,

When your calloused fingers tentatively walk

The slope of my waist:

How love's a rust-worn boat,

Abandoned at the dock--and who could doubt

Waves lick their teeth, eyeing its hull? We're taking

Our wreckage as a promise, so we don't talk.

We wet the tired oars, tide drawing us out.

We understand there's nothing to be said.

Both of us know the dangers of this sea,

Warned by the tide-worn driftwood of our pasts--.

But we've already strayed from the harbor. We thread

A slow wake though the water--then silently,

We start to row, and will for as long as this lasts.

"The Unquarried Blue of Those Depths Is All But Blinding" by Ashley Anna McHugh