I salt our toast,
spread avocado thick and ripe.
I worry the drive to the coast will strain
so we stop in the fog
to catch salt in our lashes.
The coast of my bed drops off
into thick fog. I lash our friendship
to the bow, ride through the night.
We strain to spy land
or taste something other than salt.
Fog seeps through the curtains,
invades the coast, thickens in our lungs.
A friendship under strain; I lash out.
You are salt in my wounds.
This friendship is thick with salt.
I strain to leave the coast, but
the fog has lashed me down.