Pitch black night, dying embryo washed away at sea. Ocean churns like sour stomach. Regular usual day. Wet rocks jutting out from lighthouse standing tall, rapt at attention noticing only what its light glances off of. Non-sentient. Reflective artifact, calling boats home from the water. Calling all shipwrecks, crying out. Course correction and about face. I know my port from my starboard. Icicles in ramrod shapes, jutting down from cave ceilings. Protection spells all over the area so that we remain safe and are not found. Secrets in the dark holding hands and whispering, lighting candles and asking ghosts if they can hear us. Trespassing on private property to a home that no one lives in, peering in the sliding backdoor to a darkened home. Trying to find a ghost of a little boy who died in a swimming pool one summer before we were born. A cartoon semblance on some ill-advised drunken evening. Cool spring night. Your parents not supervising. I must've thrown up, but can't recall. The muted street lamps blocked us from view. How many times we must've circled that block stoned or on our way there. Edifice, time capsule, commemorative plaque. 

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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