Stowaway

We would meet
In a hundred year old cottage
Framed with roses
Beyond the prying eyes of the city
That cottage with its wooden beams
And lost histories
Bore witness to our great passions
Wrote us hero’s in her chipped paint skin
Nestled in the creases of ourselves
I tore from you a fine form of flesh
And with my teeth carved out the future
Paved as I had hoped in gold
Dick Whittington’s London streets had nothing on my own
For our indiscretion we were rewarded the bitter fruits of
Love lost
And through our painted intimacies
Art lost herself to scrutiny.
We were our imagined selves come undone in that stone home
Lost to the bed
Like stowaways on a shipwrecked boat
We maneuvered rocks with deft hands
And fought silence back into her shell.
Raised again complete
You restored yourself in clothes
While I lay adrift
Lost in the water
with no hope of rescue.