You are not Atlantis, Darling
That winter sounded like a riddle,
something swollen and unmanageable,
a fiddle, untuned,

the rhyme, ruff,
undefined—

but your were not Atlantis, darling,

not an island unto yourself
sinking into tepid stretches
of Caribbean, the unsung
blue of moonshine wandering,

looking, weeping
for you in its tepid gloom,

the gentle roll
of my fingertip across your earlobe
did not map you,

or force us
to lay claim to each other.

There is no metaphor in the bedding, dearest,

we learn that as we age

like wine,
the bones soft and fine,
sallow like unwashed hair,

but it will take years to clear the grime of
each other off,

years to realign,

but your are not an island, some
hidden, forbidden temple
to an unnamed god,

my quests don't seek you out.