, and he stepped from below the sea.

whispering into conch shells
'here, have your ocean back'
a pinch of the skin and salt
kissing the rise of your cheeks.

I miss the days where I could
dismantle my mouth into
red ribbons and obsidian snowflakes -
nowadays a futile attempt at abstraction;
a coin for words spoiling a page;
purple waves in cautious fonts.

If one day the sun does not
rise in your world, reach up and
cut the cloth of night -
lest the curtain rise
and the blackness hover

The End

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