They swam through the fatal undercurrents of a lone sea…long since forgotten due to misinterpreted dreams. This sea was a wishing well for broken homes. More than the water itself drifted wrecked children’s toys and the remnants of shattered window-panes. With a bone chill, the wind gathered up the near muted echo of baby’s breath and songs of souls lost faster than their wishes eventually were. In solitude and what most perceive as silence, fragile, unacknowledged saints bore down their stars unto this filthy shore; for if the sky lacked proper magic to bring their wishes alive, maybe those wished upon stars would find such a sacred form of survival once planted elsewhere.
Fish leapt invisibly in and out of lonesome tide pools like an individual’s hope…the type none other than those who find beauty within this so-called wreckage will ever care to understand. Their fins were torn by the jagged edges of “mothers’” words, and it was only my love, having cut all her wires, who could stand with me at the edge of these waters and decipher utter beauty from such tatters. She crawled to the edge of the rocks—her lips brushed the edge of mine...She crossed the frantically quaking fault-line—I shuddered violently…She leapt into the waters—her tongue stole the last droplets of moisture from my mouth. This wreckage she threw herself into was the ocean behind my eyes…beneath my skin…and as she explored within me, she renamed every saint while reconstructing hope.