Torn Apart

Dashed between the rock-strewn shore
and the merciless sea, bashed and bruised,
soiled and used, ripped asunder and torn apart,
smashed by the devils of the deep blue underneath,
the wrapper floated listlessly towards me
the abundant abuse testimony to an interesting journey.

Soaked from tip to tip, pummeled by the breaking waves
the dirty wrapper dangled from the lip
of a pool of jagged rocks hugging the coast
as if contemplating a stop, a brief spot of rest
before pressing onwards, looking for all the world
like a sinking boat with the passenger hanging on for dear life,
metal and latex warped into fantastic forms by the lapping water
the Trojan’s crest bleached but still recognizable
the blue lettering completely indecipherable.

What was its story, this tattered sheath?

Perhaps a guide to unadulterated passion, not-so-nice in its refinements,
for two souls constrained by the constant demands of civilization,
desires colored by the spice of deception twice over,
their bodies fraught with fears of detection, taut with electric tension,
as they trace closet yearnings across a blood-stained sky,
sustained by the furtive assignments, all grasping mouths, greedy fingers
and needy cocks – wishing for time, though they cannot linger –
impatient and covetous as they come together in haste for a taste of the denied?

Was it an aid to new love, a passion that overwhelmed young lovers,
beautiful and proud, frolicking on the gravelly beach
wrapped in the warmth of the shoreline and each other,
daring hands sharing secrets in the enchanted embrace of moonlight
giddy with the threat of discovery, the gulls the cheering crowd
on their breathless march into pleasurable victory? 

Maybe it was a friend to old friends, strolling hand in hand after dinner
drinks and dancing, long past passion’s first blush but lush with love
margaritas and moon magic, the coastline flush with fantasy
feeling a little high, a little tipsy, and then – a sweet surprise –
they see the other with fresh eyes, his fingers reaching for hers,
or hers for his, a dizzy rush of longing smoothing over the awkward fumbling
caused by top-shelf tequila, the citrus-salt taste of lime and ocean
turning into something impossibly fizzy, melt-in-your-mouth fine.

I looked up at the dawning night, shivering with cold and fright,
at the thought of uses more sinister,
the struggling flailing gasps of one unwilling,
a ragged cloth used to administer chemical compliance,
a body bruised and battered, overpowered and shattered
torn apart by the wrong place, wrong time,
discarded, along with the evidence, into the watery abyss.
I shook my head, banishing the darkness of those thoughts;
they had no place on such a gorgeous evening.

I watched until it disappeared once more, lost to me beyond the shore
then continued on, walking slowly, wondering what other stories
I would find past the horizon of the melting sun.