One day you’ll meet her, like a memory half-buried. Her voice is nothing more than a distant echo and surer than that you remember the surety of her hands on your skin when she drew you up into the bright, white heat of the sun, drew you up and took your heart in fair trade for your breath. You recall her tremulous smile and the strength of her long fingers, her hair like a cloud of ink around the delicate bones of her pale face, her huge hollow eyes blown pupil-dark. When you meet her again, you will learn the architecture of her spine and the elegant, eloquent curve of her throat. Under your fingers her heart will sing its hummingbird beat and your mouth will discover the salt taste of her skin. But you will find that that the long line of her torso is the same grey as the rocks she rests upon and that she is serpentine, swift and sly. Her teeth are pointed and sharp as needles and the sinking sun flashes bright from the hundred thousand tiny scales which begin just below the sweet curve of her belly. One day you’ll meet her, and this time she will draw you down, down, deeper down, until the sun is distant and half-remembered and all around you is the ceaseless motion of the dark sea.
“She has been a diver in deep seas, and keeps their fallen day about her”