Her life had become sectionalized, everyone, everything separated by wavering walls of smoke. Distant thoughts, a secret.
The tears cut a track through the makeup on her face. Glyphs of a similar pattern now tattoo both of her cheeks.
She looked for heaven in all the wrong places. I was always by her side, shadow across her heart. The storm. We are not coming back.
The rain tattooes the surface of the canal. There is an empty bottle, one for every night she has been away, under the bed, becoming a sort of crazy green glass marimba.
The storm. Bright flashes of pain, like the first pulses of light, there, illuminating a new day. We kiss.Tonight, the moon is a sickle cutting across the canal.