AT THE SKIRT OF THE LIGHTHOUSE IN THE DARK OF THE NIGHT, MARUKA REJOINS WITH THE SEA. ╱ feat. @purslanes
in the distance sits a car, engine still running and the lights left on. in the dark, the yellow glow from the front window stares as one great unblinking eye, condensation from the interior heat fogging up the glass until it looks on the border of tears. maruka has kept it that way for the sake of sanctuary, a warm place to return to after her dive. so all that will occur is, in some distant way, tied to her own finger ⸺ violence always is.
her folly is that she forgets that every eye has its equivalent half, and that in creating one she had necessitated the joining of another. it's her mistake not to assess the lighthouse, with its eternal blaze, as the auxiliary light. the secondary eye. she strips her clothes on the beach and leaves them on the rocks, stepping past the waves in only the secondary skin of a slip dress. it will bite her out there, the cold: the freeze of a rhode island near-winter as real as a set of gnashing teeth. she does not mind. she never has. maruka slips under the water, mouth open: salt on salt, teeth on teeth. a homecoming. under the moonlight, her wet hair glows so black it is blue, her body so white against the dark it turns pearlescent.
across the way, the light of her car momentarily shudders ⸺ blinks, then returns to itself ⸺ as if someone is squinting with one eye, looking through a spyglass.
as if someone is trying to get a better look.