She rises into the sky, smeared with sunset. A pheonix, skittering in sparks from her body. The scars, the medication, the promises broken: burn. Here the sunset bleeds into the sea which we will crawl from shivering, drying beside a fire of flickering. She sees death in everything. But the washed up jelly-fish we found was glistening with a sleek and sinister beauty.
Maybe rot is sometimes blooming. When the sea spat us out, maybe we too were glistening. How our breath still holds the rythem, the tide of reaching. An eroding desperation to feel and to be felt: even in all our loss, all our dying.