Nothing is Special.
I will go down to the water, where the old gods sleep.
There will be the endless hush of the ocean, its eternal heavy caress the thunder of the sands, and I will wait. I will wait for the stars to start. I will wait for the night to come, and the scuttling things that live beneath the dunes will whir about me as they sift the filth from the ghost of the surf.
I will pray, as I have always prayed, in that place where the sky is the sea is the land, that liminal place where everything and nothing is washed clean.
I will take you there in my mind with me, the hidden passager, pressed into the hollows of my flesh, under the skin, where only I can feel you, and I will unpack you and stretch you out like a shadow on the sand, and let the salt water revive you.
We will hold the tiny bones of the world.
There will be the endless hush of the ocean, its eternal heavy caress the thunder of the sands, and I will wait. I will wait for the stars to start. I will wait for the night to come, and the scuttling things that live beneath the dunes will whir about me as they sift the filth from the ghost of the surf.
I will pray, as I have always prayed, in that place where the sky is the sea is the land, that liminal place where everything and nothing is washed clean.
I will take you there in my mind with me, the hidden passager, pressed into the hollows of my flesh, under the skin, where only I can feel you, and I will unpack you and stretch you out like a shadow on the sand, and let the salt water revive you.
We will hold the tiny bones of the world.