I Can Only Write About Lost Things

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When we rose to meet each other
you dove into me like I was home,
like a fish returning to the sea
after being flung upon land in a storm.
I held you to my depths
and, roiling, we two dark things
phosphoresced when we touched.
 
To me
your skin was the rich earth I danced on
Your eyes caught the moon and held it in shards
Your teeth flashed like lights off the water
Those lips brushing mine- ripe plums.
 
Now my body is ungrounded
suspended
and my fingers, unmoored from yours
are useless ships-
Clumsy, bobbing in the charcoal night.

-For K, who said this was allowed

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