He pulled carefully close and blew his baled breath upon the breach of my back. His waters warm and his tide a tender toil.
We walked along the edge of the earth, among rust-colored beasts. I looked up at him and saw the sun. I looked out to the green, graceful grasses of the Garden and easily accepted the soft surface of simplicity.
He sang poetry not his own, and completely his own. His placid pipes offering quiet, intimate artistry. I watched his fingers dance across the vibrating vessel and I smiled.
I met a tall man and tried to steal away in the night, leaving him to tow the tide. He grabbed my hand and asked me to stay. His warmth enveloped this effete embodiment, shaking and swollen with sadness.
I met a tall man with the ocean in his eyes and an anchor in his heavy heart. I watched as he unfurled his pain and allowed his tall frame to bend into the comfort of my paltry palms. His torso trembled, growing cathartic and calm beside this melancholy maiden.
There, beside him, in the despondent darkness, we made light of our own.
I followed the light through narrow hallways and cool, cold corridors. I followed it to London and back again. I followed it into noisy pubs, tethered tents and over the crowded cobblestone.
I followed the light as it seeped from his sideways smile and struggled with sly sentiment.
I followed the light too far, I reached too far beyond the limits of this lithe body. I followed it across the ocean and into the terror of transition. It grew dainty and dim, frail and fragile.
I tried to preserve it, save it. I tried to shield it, to shelter it. And in the struggle, I strangled the supple splendor.
We were without light.
I met a tall man with the ocean in his eyes, and without looking, plunged deep into the dark depths.