Sundays

You only call me baby on Sundays

between sheets like sapphire-spun

waves, breaking on skin

the color of sand

The currents push

and pull your lips as they wash

over my skin,

leaving something as secret

as the ocean floor

Sheets the color of

navy curling capture the wind

and steer us with

no compass, no anchor

We are drifting, watching,

breathing

There is sand in the bed and

water on the floor,

but the freckles on your back

are lighthouses --

I am drawn to them

We will dive

into blue sheets and lose

ourselves because

north and south don’t matter when

the beginning has no end

Break my compass

Stop your steering

Tread this water

and practice breathing through

the corners of lips

We will practice

until my heart remembers

it beats for you

and my lungs fill with

your salty scent

I hope my fingers find yours

through the waves and I’ll

run my hand down your

chest, tracing nautical lines and 

leaving

only salt

behind.

Reviews

[Relic]

You seemed to have covered all the bases in this one. You're very creative when it comes to metaphors. Great writing.