He read her poems like a map of her,
     Every comma she ran past
          Without stopping for a breath
     Pointed like an arrow.

               But people so rarely draw an X
          To mark treasures they
     Don't want found.

His hands traced the trails
Of her skin,
          Looking for the way in,
     But finding only gasps.
               
               She only exhales now.

He put down her notebook
     Closed the cover
          Kept quiet.

               Part of her was leaving him,
               The other part was leaving
          Hints;
     Clues.

If the deserter found out,
He knew,
          She would put a stop to that.


After all,
     There's no use throwing messages in bottles
          If you're imprisoned too far from the sea.