[one]

bodies swept out to sea,

lain supine across the ocean floor,

hardly a shadow in the water.

this loneliness is my own creation.

i paint white fences with rose-petals

and imagine that it is love,

but in the end,

no one calls my name,

and it is my hands

which hold me in the night.

and boats passing in the darkness

slow and watch my hair

fan out across the surface,

though no one will drop anchor

to feel for a pulse.