text by Claressinka Anderson

I

You write my thoughts on the sea,
through a door filled with black rainbows—

I chase them across the waves,
grasping for their curved, 
downy arms. 

Arms that cup my face and
pull me down on a bed 
of memories, weaving
their tales of longing with
painted fingers—

they place their hands
in melancholy pockets.

What is the smell of regret?
A little like salt and aniseed,
a little like Heathcliff sailing 
on a Turner sea—

He follows regret 
to the cliffs of Big Sur, 
where Casper’s Wanderer waits 
above the Sea of Fog,
an amethyst Buddha at his feet.

Together, they sit and cry on a shrine 
of forgotten sentences—
in their tears the shape of a
country, no longer theirs.

They watch the clouds pass through time—
a white head of curls 
glowing through a dazzling sky. 

Somewhere, on the shores of Venice, California,
Hamlet still longs for Ophelia.

II

Searching for a history that doesn't exist, 
I play the piano to my shadow
until we both disappear.

Slipping into sheets of paint, 
I look for my past and hold it close,
entwine my legs with its awkward shape.
In a large bed, loneliness can be so seductive.

Dressed up for the masquerade, 
dashing in your velvet suit,
everyone wants to dance only with you—

I give you my hand 
but you are already goodbye. 
There is always something to leave behind,
and tonight, you leave a sock for me. 

Sunshine doesn’t belong in a jar of secrets,
in your world, everyone cries and laughs 
at their own absurdity—
we are forced to love our fate,
sugar cones & sun rays, doorways & letters, 
words hiding in a cloud.

When I left, you asked if you could come too.

And in that blackness there is only feeling,
in that blackness, only dust.