Between the moon, the sea and the sky I have swum or navigated with sail and rigging. Now into this vastness of voyeuristic openness I have come to rest. This is not the terminus, but a suspension of a journey that has strained the facets of imagination. We are all dreamers; you know this to be true, you live it every day.
She said all these things in the dark, hidden under wreck wood left behind from the storm that raged through the eastern bank of shoreline, ripping flesh from limbs. We have not touched. Ever. You imagine it to be some reality that you can quantify though skin and bones. We are binary and dance in waves of electrical impulses. It is an impulse derived from the singular feminine thought, She.
We have witnessed, through a singular eye, stitched to flags flailing in the winds, the banal retrospection of hatred. I have tasted it in her words and my own blood, drawn from pursed lips. To understand us, you must know your biology. No texts, ancient or otherwise can contain the over ripened fury. We are all as infertile as the other when our fingers lay still.
Seabirds have come inshore to weather the storm. Bitter pills stick to the roof of my mouth. I have not yet mastered the art of swallowing. Assumption proclaims it will come in time. As will everything else, eventually. The sensation of moving, while standing still, will dissipate into the waves that lap at my feet. No longer marooned on the shore, again we will sail to new waters.
She has spoken to me across the divide, and whispered the sincerest of truths straight to the heart of the matter. To the heart.
