WRITE WEEK #4

[Certain]

We came like midnight mauraders, in the heat of the night.
Scenic. Squeezing you tight. Aimless drifts, speechless requites.
Queasy from wine, we waddled back under the sheets,
as the whips of the waves whisp us away over the tumbling sea.
It's only here that I ever feel.
Seperate people, fingers rapt. Winking laughs turn desperate squeals.
Sinking back, that aimlessness that once defined, divides.
The swaying ship's sways and dips. Unbroken. Resigned to pride.
I'm tracing your back. It's become your face. Slowly but surely,
the cold of the early morning becomes the only thing certain.
Reposed. Ghosts at sea, movements in delicate shadows.
Glimmering as still water. But we're destined for shallows.
And though the precipice narrows, the surface exposes a lie.
They'll find a discarded picture frame. No photo inside.

'Ship, wrecked.