calypso withers away in a lonely island — a blunder away from crumbling at the sight of seaspray and empty towns.
sweet one, this isle is too small for heartbreaks too big and soon enough, gods and grecian men and sad, sad, dead-eyed boys will be greeted by a mayhem of sobs, like flies dispersing off a dead body held together by skin — pale, porcelain, dead — skin, stretched across these bones, like the sea stretches across all of its sadness — and ogygia, a lost isle, disappears — a speck of black in a shade of teal;
a pity your heart is not big enough for these sorrows and not small enough to vanish.
and perhaps, betrayals do not come from temporary lovers but from your skin stretching, growing, making room for years of blunders until y o u are n o m o r e but a name baptized in the wrong side of the war and caught in a blunder thousands of years too late.
it's been a long while; the sun remembers your smile in his death bed, sweet one.