Lonely Visitor

On the edge of things
I’ll never know
how to swim on the surface
of your skin
or why the water ripples
in checkerboard across your chest
while you swim on my ocean
and twist in my bed
tying knots in my covers
wrapped up in a gown of white and red
and when you’re spirited from the window
of this room where you cannot stay
I’ll call after you, my lonely visitor
whose name I can never say

~ by two of us, riding rainclouds on July 6, 2009.