it was dark. pitch black, and you couldn’t see, no matter how hard you tried, that precipitous place where the sea met the sky. the stars shed no light, just black holes, as if the entire thing were a canvas chewed by moths, eaten through and billowing in a breeze you could feel winding it’s way into your skin. you climbed inside the tail of a mechanical fish made of a thousand faceted pieces of glass, each one connected to the other by a golden strip of lead, tarnished by years and years of submersion in the briny water. you called it your church and your hair was long, a wilted rose pinned to the front of your shirt. gas lights glowed as it sunk beneath the surface; you said you’d know your lover when you emerged. I waited on a floating dock of rotting wood, in the middle of that dark, dark sea, sprayed over and over with cold water, sitting in pools of it, knees drawn to my chest, hair twisting behind me in tangled ropes. I could hear the glass fish circling beneath the dock, closer and closer, until the tip of each wave began to glow. and then there you were, sitting behind me. there was just enough light for me to see you clearly, perhaps from a moon that I couldn’t recall. and that smile. I knew then that you could see me, too; that you knew me. and so we stayed there, resurrected into something innocent, something pure.