Lorelei

Lorelei

 

The ocean calls sometimes: over the hushed brick avenues and the water slicked awnings, I feel the lonely echo of the starving moon. The low of the sirens bray in the hungry nighttime as the clouds strech their smoky fingers along the starless horizon to mask the love of the celestial dreamtime that hangs over head.

I used to sit along the docks and skip stones beneath the downpour of the busy overpass with a weathered pack of cigarettes in my pocket and a heartache in my lungs, afraid to let my shame pass through my caged, tar-black lips. The thunder of the waves is a call to arms and a farewell to guilt: I hung my head lower into my rib cage. Time would never tell.

Six dollar whiskey was my brother, a dead dog was my child. I bid farewell to the night time with a dirt rag along my left wrist and joking sunlight in my hair. I think of her sometimes: when the moon is full and the seafoam calls once more. When the old hobo ruins crowd away from the walls and sing a lullabye of power to the tenements that once were, now caped in the moonlight of time.

I think of the ocean when it calls, but the ocean never thinks of me. I think of her sometimes, but time can never again sing a sorrow that I desire.