Missing 16

I remember the last time we made love
like a photograph
frozen in a crystal
sealed in a bottle
and cast adrift
floating in time
circling in the currents of chance
bound for some distant shore
or the dark depths
to sink into the mud
and never see the light
again.
In that bottle
is everything that matters
waiting for the impossible chance
that the shore is found
that the beachcomber is you
that the glint catches your eye
that you find me again
and open me
and smile.

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