Eight Bells

For Sarah

I half wake in the back of her head,
her loose rigging stringing my face,
and for these gossamer moments
I am her.

Through fog I discern
her pitched white ceiling,
the undulating ocean of duvet,
a landfall of four foot-hills.
I sail my fingers down her spine,
charting nodes and a sheet of flesh
close-hauled over bone.
Her skin smells of sea-salt
breathing night’s softness.
A hatch of light shafts white
and God-like down as rain shards
drill the waking deck above.

I drench myself in this,
dreading the eight bells
of her alarm.

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