Half of your Lucky Number 8

I.

Pull out the thick ropes, 

From inside your throat.

I wait at the roaring banks,

The boat slips and swirls away, 

Complaining about earlier demands,

Missing anchors I could not afford.

II.

Fingers push strands away

From my sweaty forehead, 

And our curtains fall down.

I bow at you, I call you Sire.

You say, melady, call me 

That every day, I am yours.

You draw the curtains back on my face.

We drown in dark roomed kisses, 

Fooling the audience yet again.

III.

Your lips are like sore litchis, 

Your tongue the moist juices, 

Dribbling down my smooth arm.

Finding refuge inside my calloused elbows.

Foamy, warm waves on a summer day, 

Stopping to rest at the grainy shores.

IV.

The first time our eyes met, 

Skies darkened and black crows 

Flew down in swarms pecking at ears.

We turned into stone, the crowd disappeared.

When we whispered our first hellos, 

The sun reappeared, butterflies swam 

Over our heads, picking up pieces 

Of skin and bone, putting them in place,

While our eyes glued them 

Back to restore our eager ears.