A Kiss
He keeps me company tonight,
relentlessly sliding the block
down my solid frame. Carving my ribs
as skilled as a sculptor.
We're co-dependent, he and I -
I need him to smooth the edges,
to scrape off the bumps. I need him to make
me from scratch. He needs me.
I am his shelter! A rigid exoskeleton
that hovers over his head at night,
arching from the strain of his thoughts
as they reach a crescendo
and wash over me. All his hurt is locked
in my wooden limbs, for the ocean to feel.
When he's done, he'll take me apart,
reassemble me. I'll glide away with the key.
At once, I hear her steps, light thumps
down solid wood, then silence. He calls her Kate.
They speak in Gibberish and she concedes
because I feel the weight of layered contact
on my skin, a tell-tale sign we're not
alone. The movement of the block is sleepy;
their touch, united, strikes as gentler.
He guides her to a rough patch – together they reduce it to dust.
She sounds like broken glass
before her champagne-colored voice
recovers from the fit. Was it called laughter?
It's like the christening of ships.
The fluid motions fade away in time.
I sense the aftershocks of their work: it tickles my skin.
Now, a solid body leans against my frame.
It's quiet. It's still. Then a riot of palms, outstretched
on my surface, urgent with need.
AN: Yes, this is from the POV of Gibbs' boat. Yes, it is very likely I'm going insane.
