Found

As we lie in the dark, our arms touch. You aren’t asleep yet. Your breath, too quiet. Can you hear the wind my frame barely contains? It is so very loud and you, so close, at least now.

That thought keeps me at sea. Your proximity and its duration, variables I hope become constants. Hope is like a rag I need to wring too frequently, the seawater dampens it.

I’d take this consumption and have it belt out over the fog, docks and hills, till the inner walls of all the homes shook in climactic perplexity, but it lacks amplification.

Something about your disposition – I want to carry you between my lips at all times and perhaps you prefer they remain sealed around your affairs.

If I tread for too long I may sink under the weight of my own offerings. They were never meant to burden.

Ring hitch, bottle sling, grief knot, fail to secure me, but with your voice alone, cast me a line and I’ll reel.

This map, it’s been redrawn, rewritten more times then I can count, but now that I found your latitude and longitude, I want to laminate its fragile remains marked with the singular outline of your features and every morning, have my eyes rise on your horizon.