Sirens, continued.

He says,
Meet me at these coördinates
We’ll get drunk, make love
Then write about the moonlight
I’m not much of a sailor
But I’ve been tying knots
In his limbs for weeks.
Would kiss his wounds
With salted lips
Could make love from this mistake
Abandon my map.
Should probably turn back.

He pulls words from my skin
Knocks over my ink well
Holds me under till I drop my pen.
He asks me when I finally will.
Give in.

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