Meet me at the guesthouse.
Meet me in the hostel lounge.
Meet me at the campsite toilets.
Meet me in the quiet town.

Bring the fire.

Bring the fire.

Bring the fire.

Bring the fire. Bring a few.

Meet me if you’re willing.
Meet me when you do.
Let’s meet before they read your name out,
abduct you from this view.

Our souls aren’t made for mating now;
I think I’ll wait another few.
It’s bones I want to meet me here;
your hair and flesh and breathing, too.

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Your skin smells of newly made melanin.
Your eyebrow is pierced;
at least, something is.
If you have tattoos,
they are funny/
without meaning,
but pretty,
like you,
all the same.

I feel like you’re funny
with meaning.
I feel like it’s funny
when you say my name.
It makes me feel funny
that you know me,
honey.
It’s funny:
you cause me no pain.

But,
hear this,
(it’s important you do):
I can do without you;
I just need myself,
the sun,
and my women.
You are only fun
when you’re willing.

I am only fun
for you
when I’m willing,
and this was never real.

I knew from the beginning.

Crystal Nordic waters roam.

They watch me;
I waver.

I waver with no home.

I think they know I’d rather be
the widow of 1,000 minnows
than the wife
of
just
one
man?

Ah,
all the men have drowned at sea.

Ah,
all that is left, treads their bodies, is me.

Ah,
/d/i/s/e/m/b/o/d/i/e/d/s/h/a/d/o/w/l/o/s/t/a/t/s/e/a/

/T/h/e/……………………………………………………………………………………………re are two of me:
one fills their filaments, frees their form, flees the sea.
The other.

Are there three?

 

When the ship runs out of sea.
When the leg has lost its knee.
When the mouth, emptied of teeth.
When the leaf, without the tree.