I would like to move with you to the edge of the sea and dwell there possibly until all the lighthouses explode. Bleeding nautical shavings and broken glass taverns of exiled lovers, we could laugh at this thick world before us, only with the knowledge that transportation for saline voyagers is provided and the armies of sad lovers march through empty white fields to find each other’s chrome hearts on the floor, thick with nitrate and the imprint of fallen swallows on certain chambers. Beneath the ivory, I can see the creamy hollowness of a torn face, which after nights of perpetual crying distorts itself into faces of ancient lovers; and the architecture of my tears imports itself to foreign places, where girls cry under diaphanous oceans. Between images and fractured hearts, I lay on my bathroom floor, flooding the spaces around me with black nostalgia and an eternal memory built into the walls I throb inside of: That I will always remember the nights spent with you in my mind, crying for a strange kind of love for the boy who could not understand my understated sighs, or the wailing vacancies in my heart, which leaked pigments across the telephone and spoke to you. Through the shores of scientific love, you will be shown in my museums as the 2nd great love of a Vatican, and in the walls of perfume you linger between light and a lovers sense of time.
EDGE OF THE SEA