A Pirate’s Life for Me

I recall a moment in the mirror, looking back at each other together in such arms as ours and the warmth from off your body made me feel at home, here was a tummy that looked so womanly, it made sense as a boy I thought babies were made in them. I wanted only to rest my head upon it gently as you ran fingers through my thinning hair, long days spent at your window with a breeze coming over us softly, we were as fat cat lovers in love in laziness, there was little else to our days than each other and lying down, it was here in the secret art of sleeping had we forged the dreams of two night ships passing and caught in one another’s current, they dance far out at sea in the moonlight caught up in the same wind, the same gravity holding them together spinning around and around the same galactic central point. There was much mirth and merriment betwixt our crews, but I a privateer knew I had little to do with a friendly merchant ship, the finest silks of Arabi had she, the sweetest wines Dorne had to offer, the most exotic and succulent spices from the Orient and the best sugarcane the West Indies had ever produced from which my life blood Rum was birthed. I could not pillage her decks as I would under any other flag, but mistress merchant is a friend to the Seven Seas therefore I can only love her treasures from afar, oft wondering in my cabin at night as the wind blows softly through the window, billows curtains, willow whispers in my ear of when such baubles sat in my hands, such gems before my eyes, what perfumes incensed my senses -I was not myself there was such richness to it all- what a fool was I for leaving such booty unplundered, what a fool for the open seas am I that could not be caught but by a wind in my sail blowing me ever onward.

There is an Island off the coast of Barbados, that nary a map can find, but you’ll find me there at the end of my days, when the seas and the wind carry me no more, you’ll find me locked up, in my own trap, where “X” marks the spot upon the beach, upon the sand lay the remains of this marked man, casting out a line for one more fish, just one more bite before his maker meets him rummy’d in a snoring morning, fat on his hammock lost in fly less dreams the stars still out the moon’s there too and a dawn approaches him to wake him from his slumber when he’d number his sleeping by two, and alone and undaunted by this rude awakening he’d murmur a word- “still…”

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