Barnacles

So now we sit, barely exist
in the trenches of "what if?"

Like some demented function
Like a poem without meaning

Like some witless bag of dirt
by the side of the road
writhing in a pain you
can no longer see
we are

drifting apart,
without boats,
without oceans,
nearly breaking our own necks
with the sounds of you
walking out that door
this fucking
stillborn ship,
never sailed due south
until i passed the captain's cap
to you.
you failed me at seaside
left my bones ashore
gangrene rotted
pale grave skin
braided filthy
at your door.