The Sailing Ship

And that day, we clung to each other, sitting up in a bed of blue folds, an ocean.

We rocked gently, our bodies together, swaying softly in the sheets.

I thought of the masts of a ship. We were those masts, clinging together. A schooner, or perhaps some smaller sailing vessel, surely not some Man-o-war, but happily greater than a sunfish.

Sails furled, our bones and truths lay revealed and ready for the reading, navigable only by the ropes and sinews of ourselves.

This ship is anchored in my room, in the calm waters of my bed. I can see gulls gliding softly above us as we rock, resting in our scaffolding. I can see them landing in the quiet waters around us to feed on whatever may be found overboard.

I can see in the morning as we move with the simple waves, the sun rising, stretching its golden fingers through the mists of Boston.

As the sun reaches up in the early hours, the harbor slowly wakes, and traffic outside comes to life.

But this is of no consequence to us.

I am beyond happy minding my own in the sailing ship anchored here in this bed.