My Siren does not sing; it whispers tales of dusty sun-kissed innocence in the twilight of tired days. They whisper tales of phantom embraces, gently reminiscing of morning breath, lips leaving freckles of adoration in the secret places. They speak of tired walls and bare feet in well-walked halls. Roasted beans and early dreams lay in hands memorized by ambling, entangling fingers and pining palms. She does not draw me to sharp rocks and shorelines but whirlpools of disillusionment, crashing waves of solitude against the hull of my saltwater sick mind. The waterlogged ship leaks through its eyes as it wakes, finding the deck barren and the quarters dusty and cobweb-thick.
















