Tuesday, March 29, 2011

marie celeste

on saturdays you fall apart

well into a bottle of gin

you fragile sobbing thing

clinging to me like a cobweb

shattered sea glass


i can only console and comfort

drowning in the salt of this ocean

my words are dead when they reach you

you, a girl like a wrecked ship

so gone twisted rotted dead

no love can resuscitate you

we must be content to plunder your ruins


sunday morning and you lie across my bed

hair gold and silver on the sheets


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