Shearwater Follow

A pretty one-eyed girl from the state of Maine can't see the church: it's on the left side of her brain. But it's clothed in browning leaves and it wants to take her in, and there's a Parson's robe inside that wants to feel her skin. And the sleeves of warm, black cloth are hungry for her wrists, and the pages of the Holy Book are hungry for her kiss. She'll go home all alone on the right hand of the interstate and the church upon the hill it will sit in crumbling leaves and it will wait for her, wait to be together. But she won't want it, ever. It's like a dream I had: this girl I went to see (and I can't sing her name, she might be listening to me), in a room of missing tiles we felt ourselves entwine, and she bit my tongue and shouted as I crawled into her mind. It was full of singing mouths and apples in the air, a soft, warm little room that was surrounded by her hair. And, alone, when we awoke, we stretched our legs and spoke to the people we were sleeping with in voices not our own, in the cool of our beds with the words just dissipating in the empty air ahead, and this other world just waiting until we're dead.