ships sail on your freckle-misted eyes,
between them, messages come and go.
and i am like a meek litle errand-boy
in your presence; shy,
yet overly conscious
of spaces between your toes. why,
i am close to falling in love with a metaphor, and i
have already given up on fate: only yours, these hands,
and oh captain my captain, your wish:
my command, and more. i cannot wait i am agitated i’m excited i will die
but yours is a slow shore,
the winds being reminders of
how far we can ever go,
how gently they comfort me.
— A. P.