(no subject)

May 22, 2004 02:49

I miss him more as it gets less acidic to my stomach to keep him away. Whether it is the hurt fading or forging I cannot tell, despite having been through it before. The more I feel distanced and subdued, the more I am certain of my duty and resolve to let myself crash onto distant shores before I allow him to wash into mine. He will not surge past the jetties, where centuries of barnacle and foraminifera have anchored beneath a wispy visage of translucent jelly sea moss and bits of shell, so fragile and alluring. And yet The Melancholy slips and whispers, moans across wet rock, rumbling a sad fugue of self-preservation. So safe and lonely. Unyielding, brittle. Vulnerable. She waits.

Shells and pearls and seaweed,
calcified fractal prisms and prisons
abandoned
in the tangled net of her hair.
Shipwrecked siren.
A net cast beyond the buoys
and over her lap, a blanket
as she sits and rocks
on her rock in the sun.
Iridescence in the murky depths,
clouds of seaweed and debris
form soft explosions in slow motion
when she sways by her hips
and her scales flash their position in their phalanx
of chain mail armor across her tail.
The warm current passes;
she grows old in her mind.

Came sick into your shore
You showed me what this life is for.
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