A Small Boat

It’s as if you had keys to my soul, but no corny catchphrase can hold the years I’ve been held prisoner. Not sure if I’m in love with you or the Stockholm syndrome has melted my mind and I sympathize with my captor. You tell me that I’m free and I can see the open door, but with every awkward half caught word and stolen glance I walk further into this prison. Not sure if it was you or I who built it but were both here now and I don’t remember who last held the keys. Were there ever keys, or were they as conjured as the heat between our bodies and left as fast? Slowly dissipating stuck in a moment that could never end until the next acidic phrase burned a hole in the thread we once called a relationship. But you never were really able to relate to me and I’m afraid our ship has been sinking from the moment we left port, set asea but fears at shore seamed as distant and surreal as the horizon. But now we’ve reached the far off and found that there were holes letting in water from the hold. Maybe that’s the water I’m wiping from my eyes. Maybe there is a way out, a way past years of mind melting soul numbing to before there was an us. But before there was an us I cannot recall if there was a you or a me. And I know I would let that key slip as fast as we did the first, for this prison is my love and the ports are all the memory I need. I know not who is coercing who, but if we turn off the lights and hold hands I think I see the horizon.