find me at sea, pneumonia.

exhausted from the parkway’s lungs,
i lingered on the cough of monday’s commute
with the other soughless pipes and sloughed leaves.
expectorants don’t work at sea.
the usual.

you were nude, wet and waterproof, swimming in this foreign simpatico season
for ten seconds before me,
sealing safely all your regrets,
disregard, and deep insatiable moaning from our passing exchange.
your dog was also paddling there.
the usual.

the grain of your face splintered womb-ward,
life buoys deployed, capsized crescent appeared on the surface,
and reminded me of our Doldrums before your slinking storms,
and how unexperienced i was when i traded my sextant for trust
and sailed them with faith.
you witnessed me merge with the dumpster or barge (or whatever)
tethered to your neighbor’s vacant house
sunset on my blink;
hinging us through the tragedy,
a pact for our wasted maiden voyage.
you demanded a monsoon. it came, 9, it left, 10.
the usual.

ten more seconds:
the song i wrote for you played and you disappeared from the mirror chasing my peripheral.
coughing, 4,
tobacco burning, 5,6,
match suspended behind me (7,8,9)
pioneering fertile, combustible passivity for make this one count.
the fire went out. 10.
the usual.

i want to love you least.
i always should have.
but that’s too cold
and unusual.