(the sea is never that shade of turquoise here, and the cliffs aren’t white and up isn’t down and no strangers here call you love)
i am wearing the same outfit, though – the brown dress with the roses embroidered on the skirt, and the black coat with its slick lining and its three tiny buttons at the collar. i’ve added layers – two petticoats. woolen stockings. a thick knitted cardigan.
here the nights are still dark, and there’s a blood ring around the moon and the wind is a nuisance, not strong enough to lean into, not deafening and exhilarating on the edge of the land. snow again, thin but stubborn like a cough. my anemones and i are curled up tight, shivering. we’re waiting, again. where are you?
my oldest recurring dream: running faster and faster and faster until i think i can’t any more (breathing like when you can’t tell if a burn is cold or hot) and then suddenly i am flying (swimming through the air). effortless, as long as i don’t let myself doubt.
(first time i saw it, i thought they’d stolen it straight out of my mind)
there you are.