I am a lonely swimmer, dashing my tired body against the dark coast.
There are no lights, only the wind and the sand, bone white backs bent under the long, white cane of the moon.
Cotes Du Rhone, U2'S Stay
on infinite repeat, a debris field of loneliness spills across dense banks of shimmering cold shadows.
The girls swim in their own ocean, one much warmer than mine. The sound of their warm breath laps against the cold hull of HMS Kingdad as its bow kicks up a cloud and nuzzles into the soft mud of the bottom. Their mattress bobs along in the dreams of diligent angels.
Meanwhile, a regal stern towers against the open, blue canopy of the night, of Wagner, of perfectionism and of longing. A still shot hung in the moment just before the descent into the open mouths of sharks and sepia tone photographs.
I will always be a wreck. A sad postcard.
They will always have one another to cling to.
I am a shipwreck, a tongue of rainbow hued oil on the surface of the sea. I am a pillow of fire, a tap and a click in phantom ears, a searchlight, a curl of cork hung in the dark grasp of diesel fuel and scorched so'westers.
I am a straggler on the beach, crawling towards the embers of a dying campfire.