Your Love
Your love was of a taking not a
giving kind that swallowed shells
and spat them back onto the sand,
footprints lost to the surf.
It was a dance to which you
changed the footing. An orchestra
with sheet music blank, giving
me the second chair.
In the night, passions once breathy
and ragged became a paper bag.
Browned. Aged. Crinkled and
crackled and wrinkled by fist.
Your love was of a stealing not a
saving kind - yet, preserved in
amber somehow. Trapped in
past without future.
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