From the terrace, I can see the work of your fingers: the constellation Perseus, his sword, trailing the sea, fixed against the sky. The masterwork of light which lingers on the surface of the sea transfixes me.
The nightfall has blurred the place where your fingers bind ocean to air. Stepping off the dock, I shiver against the water, unmindful of my face, hushed and pale and unaware. And, who am I—quivering—
that you would give me heed? A moon-jelly ribboning beneath my feet glows faint like a ghost, its green light tangled in the weeds.
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