(no subject)
in an attempt to staunch the wounds that bleed
little golden flecks of my youth i wash my clothes
in salt water and let them dry in the heat, hoping
that perhaps something will soak or bake in that
time can't take away: a scent of the ocean or a
memory of color the night you tried to wade into the black
tide, only to emerge new and wet like a cosmic child
singing your favorite songs and keeping a beat with your shivers.
when you ask if red skies at night are sailors' delights i can
only wonder what it was like to think of everything as a fight.
the evening sun dries my shirts and the light seeps in through
the shades, but i'm a bit too drunk to remember our glorious wars.
half asleep, the howls of battle are just the fan quietly
resigning to the warmth of the room; the calm of victory is
just a dream i had as the breeze stumbles in and makes
a door swinging on its hinges sound like celebration guns