VI

My Dearest Meadow,

There is something that has been on my mind, I have been having strange dreams again.

Selene pulls ventricles like tides. Nocturnally, she ascends steep sternal stars. Ethereal column of composure, she pulls piety from heresy, commanding cosmic compliance. Reverently, she respires oceanic lungs, fusing the currents of time and space under starlit canopy, feigning ignorance to ardent eyes.

Poseidon swells with patient devotion, amusement gleaming across frozen features like sunlight filtering through rippling water. He indulges her righteous pretense, captivated by her waxing and waning, tethering earth to axis. She beckons his rise and fall; he submerges, fervent in worship.

At dawn, fate finally fractures, sovereignty and sea, casting holy refraction. Soft silver slivers trace shadows on phosphorescent waves, while bioluminescent bulbs illuminate disphotic chambers below, sifting sediment on shipwreck and sand. Archimedes’ principle is woven in their blood, a constant reminder of their return to equilibrium. Their descent is a slow awakening, buoyed only by the sunset—a gentle rebellion against stagnation. Fractal branches stretch like veins, unfurling delicate pathways for dark oxygen. Seeds of divinity sow deep into molecules, binding them beyond the boundaries of flesh and folklore.

Eventually the sun seals her beyond his reach.

Iridescent bubbles suspend, shimmering in his blood, stagnant without her gravity. He waits, a restless sentinel beneath the waves, seeking soft silver refraction. Star-crossed secrets dissolve in seafoam. Salt clots pearls in his ventricles, tangent oblations of tomorrow. He settles soft on sand, his eyes, ever-devout, return to the sky, each wave washing aching prayer across his chest, awaiting her ascension.

Always yours,

Dorothea B