When I listen to The Shins,
I time travel to our coveted space - afternoons
of invented villages residing
outside windows.
But, I left you
sailing South
all the while cursing
my departure, the roughness
of the sea.
The lantern only so
bright, and you knew
I had to
row alone.
When I listen to the music of your island,
I remember the roar of the restaurant - the night
of confessions no longer residing
inside
your head or home.
You gripped my right knee
with panic and possession
wishing it was maybe
my heart.
Fingerprints lingering for hours.
You fed me
Sangria until
my head swayed to the rhythms of your Cuban hips.
You begged me
to stay, knowing this
would be your first indiscretion.
Dressed in your t-shirt and shorts
in a bed miles from your shore.
Even then, I knew you
would leave her.
But, I accompanied you
as you left port
held your hands
and helped you steer.
I fact checked your poetry
(no - your grandfather never slept with a prostitute)
and edited your fiction.
You completed the divorcee checklist:
moved out, lost weight, started running,
remarried - quickly.
Eager to patch the hole of that sunken wreck.
Desperate to feel less alone.
But I
was just that
girl sailor
offering you a safe harbor
on a sandbar,
knowing in a breath
we would both be gone.
