Your head rests on my shoulder
as you chart the geography of our ecstasy.
Outside, an owl breaks the silence,
each hoot marking the years since our lips met.
Will the owl also count the times
we plundered each other's bodies in lonely anchorages,
one line tethering us to the unfathomable deep?
You moved on, not realizing then our connection,
and unaware that your life's travels
would eventually return you to me,
your shelter, anchor,
home.
Pris Campbell
(c)01/01/2002
Photography: Sunrise, New Year 2002 in New Zealand by Kit Wilson
Music: Annie's Song
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