Dreams Of Lovers

Glow worms
oxidizing cotton
like iron,
illuminating
deep caverns
in time.
Smooth shiny legs
tic-toc past the gazes
as the patent finish
clears the room.
A woman clings
to her Whitman Sampler
while rolling
a two-bit piece
over her fingers.
Her face rises
to the occasional
scent of ale
passing through
the fabric of the place.
She turns with a fluid motion,
her limpid pools
full of swimming sensations
that never made it to shore.
Reaching out
for a single grain of sand,
her touch sends a
ripple across the waters
that lay between her coastline
and a message locked within a bottle
that holds the dreams of lovers.
In the darkness of her sleep
she reaches for the bottle,
teasing it further away
as it glances from her fingertips.
The two-bit lost it's balance,
and the Whitmans' were sampled out.

I wonder if she'll ever see home again.

I'll wait at the shore.
Maybe a bottle will come my way.