Forward.
Reveal the sweat.
Tingling throughout,
Until the wind meets the wet.

Sipping.
Put down the weight.
Comforting taste,
While the whole sky waits.

Thinking.
Losing the train.
Cut the skull open
And examine the brain.

I discover myself, tiny, bean-shaped on the tiled floor.
Raised to my knees the edge of the counter feels deadly.

Thank the gods, not this.

The mirror stares back at my shame with only wet redness.

I look at the offending object.
Well, that could have been worse.

I look to the ground.
Well, that could have been worse.

The effort required to hold back against the floor worries me.

I kept it cool. There is no mark.

I discover all of us.

We are as leaves floating in a puddle.
We rot.
We may become adhered to a shoe,
Or squished into the ground,
But we know we are rotting.

. Canto I: The Movement .

Sing, O depths, of the sundered and stitched—
of lovers who fled the lattice of men.
They bore no dowry but discord and blaze,
cast off from the courts of the land-born kin.

She rose from a brine-locked temple,
crowned in eelbones and saltglass,
her voice a harpoon through silence.
He came from a pyre of failed gods,
drunk on the ash of forgotten cities,
carrying a heart wrapped in nettle and wire.

They met in the undertow—
not with grace, but with rupture.
He called her flame in the throat of the sea,
she named him the reef that bleeds stars.

They kissed in the eye of a cyclone,
fed each other names never spoken twice,
and shackled themselves in sinew and storm.

Let it be known: they did not set sail.
They were flung—howling—from the world’s wound.


. Canto II: The Recognition .

Seven moons passed through their lungs
before they saw.

Not eyes—not bodies—
but the myths coiled inside each other’s ribs.

She bore a temple in her stomach
where drowned saints wept for the living.
He kept a cemetery behind his tongue
for all the truths he’d butchered with silence.

They laid bare their reliquaries,
cracked open their chests
like oysters of ruin—
and still, they reached.

No mercy. No disguise.
Only pulse and plague.
She screamed her mother’s curses into his jaw.
He fed her the names of storms he never wept for.

Still—
they danced.
Still—
they sank.
Not from weight,
but from knowing.

And the sea, jealous of such raw mirror,
split its throat open,
so even Poseidon would forget peace.


. Canto III: The Resolution .

They did not break.
They were not mended.
They blurred,
like blood in tide,
like prayer in fog.

The sea claimed their names,
then forgot them—
but the bones remembered.

Now coral grows from their vows.
Now whales dream their sighs.

She became the thrum beneath shipwrecks,
the voice in a sailor’s last breath.
He became the itch in the compass,
the pull toward madness at dusk.

If you listen—
truly listen—
you may still hear it:
a hymn of wire, salt, and marrow,
carried on a wave older than time.

Not warning.
Not lament.
But tribute.

To the wire-bound lovers—
to the myth that dared to bleed
and called it sacred.

If I never loved him, would I have still found you?
Our meeting was so random, but it was kind of his fault too
If I hadn't left him,
I wouldn't have opened up that game,
And if I never did that- would you ever know my name?
If we take it further from all the trauma I went through, had I not lived through it, would my path still have stopped at you?
At what point in this timeline was our fate decided?
I think about this all the time- I've over analyzed it.
If she didn't have me at sixteen,
maybe my childhood could've been abuse free,
If my dad wasn't a ******* ***, I could have lived at home and not dropped out of class,
If I didn't isolate at my grandmother's house, would I have been strong- less like a mouse?
If a heart attack didn't take her from me, I'd have never gotten close to him in 2015
If I hadn't suffered a decade with him,
I'd have never been in Salem
with my sister's on a whim
If I wasn't damaged would I have ran? Maybe then we'd get the life sometimes we would plan
If none of this happened I'd just like to know,
Was my soul always destined
for yours to know?

Ours was no courtly harbor,
no silk-sheeted sail—
but a reef full of teeth
and a vow made in gale.

She spoke in glyphs,
I answered in rust,
tongues tangled in seaweed,
our compass: mistrust.

We danced on the spine of a kraken’s grave,
sipped sun-rot wine, sang savage and brave.
Love wore an anchor and kissed like a flare—
then dragged us both down without breath or prayer.

Her laughter cracked hulls,
my longing broke clocks,
we lit fires in kelp beds
and slept inside shocks.

No chapel, no chart—just marrow and myth,
just barnacled kisses, and salt on our pith.
The gods turned away—too mortal, too loud—
so we crowned each other in stormcloud and shroud.

Now I drift with her shadow stitched under my skin,
a map inked in bruises, a dirge for our sin.
If you hear a hymn bleeding through kelp and decay,
it’s us, still singing—uncharted, unloved—
in the bowels of the bay.

When a noble heart is betrayed,
He runs not home, but feeds the flame.

Toward the low, he throws his grace,
A furious fall from a higher place.

As if to curse what once was pure,
To make his past no longer endure.

Not for pleasure, not for thrill
But to punish the light it once stood still.