Atlas

A mess of wet skin,
soft flesh,
filthy shoulders.

Atlas never asked to be a statue.

The ache of knowing he can't go home
radiates throughout his bones.
His blood is slow and his hands,
his veins,
are shaky.

His muscles are sore
with love, or its absence,
and as he gazes through oblivion,
he feels lonlier than God.

But he's grown to savor
the salt he tastes,
the Atlantic rolling
down his face.