It’s funny how the ferryman never mentioned that he would stop 

carrying me to the Southern Isles.

Where we would both lie and smile, as the waves 

lapped our toes and the seagulls flocked in droves. 

Where the flowers would bloom at just a touch, 

where the people cared but not too much, 

and the sun lazed idle in the sky.

A star burning honey with our love.  

It’s funny that he packed up shop and fled to 

    the Keys, 

where he knew I couldn’t follow.

     What a coward 

                       That man.

Oh! how I weeped for days 

as the black sand swallowed me,

turning soft honey soaked skin to 

gray stone,

lips to molten magma.

Your tangerine hands didn't find my sculpted stone face, 

didn’t wipe the painful seaborn tears from my cheeks with a soft sweet swipe 

of your thumb. 

You stayed 

unmoving 

on your sweet paradise,

head lulled in incoming of another tender grape,

while I broke and crumbled.

Another particle of midnight sand on the night beach, 

a place the sun never wanted to touch.