Sailing

The love poem that I’ve scribed for you

is inside an empty bottle,

Peller Estates, 2024,

wine from an evening

that you say we touched and danced

but I know we never did;

our backs against the wall

and our feet locked side-by-side,

tapping on the floor

to the piano’s ¾ time,

quick enough

so we could have danced apart,

lagging just a bit

so we clearly could have clasped,

shuffled with my arms about your waist

and yours around my neck.

I imagine you

picturing movement,

to music only ears and toes

partook of,

our bodies parting

as if water

had wedged itself between,

the gap widening

into a gorge,

a River Atlantic of sorts,

two continents adrift

like loosened jigsaw pieces,

an ocean born, expanding,

making room for unread verse—

afloat, undisturbed,

forever encased in glass.

Andreas Gripp

RF Image