ManicDDaily

Castaway (Retrieved)

When he’s away,
she sleeps sideways, lolling
in a sunken corner of
the bed where
gravity weighs
heavy, computer serving
as splintered
guard rail. Sometimes, in the
sway of blue-light
wavelengths, she’ll send out
messages as if in bottles
that can swim, the words
protruding fins, defined and
sleek, above glassy surfaces.
Other times, the words tie themselves
into knuckled knots, as if
love, stranded by
the fraying self, could weave a net that,
when thrown upon chopped
waters, captured a
salvageable catch. (Not
typically.)
But if, in the end, she can collect
the strands, solitude
takes flight, net acting
as its own safety, the knots points
of engagement, syllables frolicking, the
bed’s entire coverlet
afloat.  She will call him then,
reading aloud, and he will say,
that’s beautiful, and the words–his/hers–
cannot be said to hold her, but will
lap against her brain, a susurrating
companion to the ebbed night’s sleep.

(As always, all rights reserved.)

The above a sort of lone poet’s Valentine’s Day poem–posted here for all of you who have been kind enough to follow and support me throughout the last couple of years, and the wonderful dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night.