I'll live in a conch of a world. Sit on the beach naked, save stilettos. Lulled to sleep by stolen Chardonnay and gossip hiss of waves. They'll speak of the secrets of the sea, but I won't have ears to listen. I'll be intoxicated, bloated, silly giggling, and hiding in the details.

 

And I will find you in the water. You will be naked, save your leg warmers, tangled with seaweed. You'll be hiding, aquatic camouflage. God won't have given you a name yet. I'll be meaning to save you, but I want to see you work for it; struggle belly-up to the store like the primordial things and learn to speak/romance/tie your shoes/learn your ABCs. But I will pluck you from the water, I will be the way you breathe. I will recreate you: sand for flesh and bone, with the sea in your blood. I will blow the sun direct into your navel, a molten-glass ball of soul. Nails and teeth of bird-ravaged, wave-crash smoothed shell. Your eyes will never move, never blink, made of jellyfish hearts, always receptive: a one way mirror. I'll light a fire in your lips and in between thighs.

 

But we will be different. I came to being in a hospital for ghosts, and you in a sea of your own. You will be imperfect, organic, molded by your kith and kin. I, molded by divine hands of experience.

 

You will be a cheap imitation of beauty. But you will be mine, and you will never die.