I let down my hair and the lighthouses fall. Call it coincidence,
call it siren song, call it a debt to the sea. Your skin is on the floor
where I peeled it off your bones. The sky is turning red, the sea is
full of stars. We make love that isn’t love. Is it the woman or the
poet in me who takes a lover in each corner of the world? Who
kisses with her eyes open. Who misses the wrong people. The
lighthouse never pointed home anyway, just pulled you further from
the shore and this woman, this poet, she never learned to swim. Your
skin is thick with salt and I hear waves inside your chest. Will you
name them after me? Will you forget me when I’m gone? If we’re
sharing secrets, let me tell you this: I will miss you across continents.
I will see you in my dreams. I will wear your whispers in my hair and
when the lighthouse falls, you’ll think of me. We will not love each
other, but something will fall. Something always falls. The woman
tries to catch them and the poet lets them shatter, and my castles all
are full of broken things. Here are the words that I meant to say. Here
are the gifts that I wanted to give you. We never knew each other but
no one wants to tell us that. Ask the poet how that goes. Ask the woman
why she’s singing. Do you understand this language or should I start again?
I let down my hair and the lighthouses fall. You are far from home
and I am not much closer. The sky is turning purple, the birds have all
gone home. Neither of us was looking for the lighthouse anyway. You
touch me like a poem and I am singing in a language that we don’t understand.
Call it emptiness. Call it hope. Call it siren song.