In a short distance, a distance so short that it could easily be seen and believed. And what's there to see other than the mutual past, but worn-out old fishing boats weathered and roughened bobbing in the sea. All the boats bobbed freely frayed only with the music of the olden sea. Faded, weary with use, almost paintless in the brightened gloom, the boats were tottering happily, relaxed for once. Almost chirping away, sated, for now, a little buzzed with what they were doing themselves on the water that's restless by choice, that won't stay still. In short, the boats were merry in the bosom of the old sea. Though something else, something older than the sea, was certainly not merry. Far from it.

But the sea itself, that ole fool that just won't fade, go away, and die? The sea was luminous and greedy in the fresh sunlight, reminding everyone, all of us and et al of better lights of yesterday. No fireflies had died today for this. But the old sea was on the move, heavy and hungry swelling ready to give itself up, breathing in and out mightily, satisfied with itself.

The sea was agitated, it looked fattened, sluggish and smug, about to heave and give back all that it took. The sea was stirring, no longer waiting for the Carmine September. But what is so great about that? What was so grand about the once blue sea? The sea only takes, it doesn't give anything back. That was its only greatness. Fortunately, no one was listening to the ocean, leastways not to this one.

This isn't about the sea. No, this is about the trees nearby, in a soft distance swaying softly. Not oaks or firs but palm trees, palm trees swayed in this volume, native and tasty. Trees slightly drunk and mostly rebellious. Resentful. They didn't want to be kindling for someone else's writing no more, why the heck should they make others fly while they stay rooted in one place? Spillage of ink, yuck! Words, what good are they? No one cares about them anymore. What power do they have in a steampunk world where the machines are sentient. Though the trees readily admitted they think of words sometimes, they missed the blackness of ink. They sure loved Jesse Wallace's novels. And they missed the dinosaurs. The dinosaurs themselves dreamt of trees stripped of everything, and the stripped trees were patiently dreaming of extinction.

Let's talk about that for a while, no? In a corner of the night, let us decipher our own scrawl.
All the trees, erstwhile and new, were shaking in the wind, wavering ready to roll off this paper-like fuzz and dandelion. Just dust them off the pages, will ya, blow them off the surface and you are good to go. Stupid Saoirse, no need to talk, no need to ruin new things now. There's no song to tremble to here.

Trees were clustered in a clearing a little to the left, at the end of the dirt path that leads down to them, at the very edge of this little story. They were gathered there for something, let's not disappoint them. Walk down the stone stairs and stand in between them, they are rustling so sweetly. Forget the sea, and listen to them.

In that clearing, all the trees rippled swinging back and forth. The false light was trapped there within the knowing woods, secrets making them nod. Sudden abrupt movements in the recesses of that very small forest and the local rabbits scattered; an explosion of furry tiny bodies. They were the effect, but what was the cause? Oh, these two. Why couldn't they have stayed in their cabin, the moon gave them plenty of reason to stay there. Was that pliable feeling only for the strangers to enjoy? Two people in the woods, and all the white rabbits scurrying away trying to escape the noises humans made inside their heads. Silly bunnies, that was their mistake. These two, a man and a woman, weren't human. A boy who could float and a girl who wouldn't. But they both could swim in a Gaimaned ocean.

Everything is evanescent, says Annie.
Who is Annie? says I.

Deciding to be in summer again, home's gone. But a heart's still here waiting for the beat of hers, eagerly waiting for her dirtied kisses. Her last fiery kiss had taken him back to the violent days of Völuspá, those violent shades, Hearkening back to days when she breathed into him, the wonder of her touch could do that. But that very kiss got stolen, as did the hearth between her thighs. A winter bird did that. Her deadbeat heart lay dead somewhere else. Look across the untouched beach and the pure sand dunes, see all the water's gone. She just isn't watery enough anymore. Where are her tears?

There, look at that. The sun's about to cleave into the night. Then the new sun like this new song melted on her face, and now I want to too whilst the palm trees swaying in the wind over yonder. Only the quiet of the sun made all of her faces shine like that. All the trees grinning in that small clearing near the water, what's left of it anyway, agreed.

But we were talking about the two people walking in the woods. Back to that narrowed sunshine. No more night here.

Walking across the forested floor, in the middle of their trek, he started to have second thoughts, lots of them and most of them about her. He looked up, he got spooked. Why did he lookup? He was frightened, all the trees were scaring him. He couldn't stop listening to what they were saying, what they kept telling him. Even in the daylight what they meant to say, got to him. Little did he know, the trees were scared as well, even though they were the instrument of terror themselves. Despite the fact, the elements meant them no harm. The truth was the trees were scaring themselves. Why? The trust between all in this fable was fraught with the unknown. Oh, well what can you do?

She felt something and glanced at him. One look at him, she could see how badly shaken he was. So she did what was natural, she started to take him out of the woods, even though it was disingenuous as hell for her to do so. It was not her story after all and it wasn't up to her to decide what she owned him. But she did decide to become his exit. Trees watching them, she took his hand, moss glistened angrily at that, probably objecting but she proceeded to find a way out for him anyway. His hand in his hers, the slight touch of her palm against his, and the palm trees bestirred themselves emboldening, getting reckless, reviving the old rivalry between the gods and men, and between them too of course. They were in there as well. Why not, the trees were always there. They gleefully stirred the timeless pot of atavistic animosity between all those who played this drear game. They did that because of her and her alone. She alone is responsible for the rift. She was the root cause behind every problem the humankind ever faced. A caustic cause everyone wanted to make their own. A sigil all wanted to pick up and that’s including myself. But here’s the thing, They all wanted to get behind her yet she's one cost no one wants to pay. Except those trees. There is a good reason why she is the real reason everything is such a mess. That's because the ocean, that one yeah, obeyed only her. Having surrendered to her when the world was first created, and then made undone. But this isn't about the sea, it's about the trees. Ask them, they'll tell you. What were the trees doing at this point, you ask? Well, more daring, they started to make him even more uncomfortable the way they were staring at him; he wanted to hide behind her, which was odd he was so used to hiding inside her. Inside out she was his sincere succor.

Hurriedly, she was looking for an opening but not finding it. How could she, she was an egress herself, the very out she was looking for. But no one told her, for who appreciate mothers though she wasn't one. The trees knew that he did too but he wouldn't tell her or distract her attention, dissuade her from rescuing him in any way. Malicious and bitter rivals that they were again once again, trees were warning her, well they were trying. She simply didn't speak their tongue anymore. Whatever they were saying clung to her head like fog, the pink streaks in her hair started to look glazed over. He sighed, this glove wasn't attractive anymore. What was he thinking coming down here following her smile, reddened even without her cape? They needed to cut an opening now. Now, right now!

A certain slant of light tried to angle into the cluster of overgrown green canopy. Her grip still firm, her gait assertive, she led him on. But what a ghost she still was for him. Home wasn't here, she was. Looking at her, why did he want to be home, when she was with him? While she was still holding him, he opened his hand, flexing his fingers and then closing his fist, he enmeshed their fingers again. He felt her, he felt it. What she was. Her touch was cometary.

His loneliness must be chafing her, she reassured him. She patted the back of his hand, her thumb stroking his skin. It was weird, she was squeezing his hand, and the cherry trees everywhere were erupting into flames. Every tree was susceptible to the things she did with her hands, it was a little crazy just how beautiful that was, and she was a little seek crazed up after all. The trees did have a lot to be jealous of, - no wait, envious of- thanks Homer!

Maybe she was trying to become his Thought. Pace slow, head down, the arch of her simple smile dappled with the borrowed sunlight. The swaying of her hips, the motion of it all brought to mind the lagoons they left behind. Behind them, in front of them. Her and him. Him and her. And the trees. The trees were making too much noise, they seem to be raveling in his distress. The tallest of them reminded him of the sea. The roar of the sea wasn't making him sick, just to be clear. He was just sick of the sea. All the blueness making him gag. Even far away and further distanced by her, he could still smell the sea, he smelt the sea. And amidst the trees, the sea knew him only too well. It was all sickening. Driving him insane, slowly and by increments. Little by little, a slow burn. Soon enough, they'd get back to the sea. With the sea so far away how could he still smell it? He finds himself looking at her.

Her grip tightened, he forgot, and they walked on. She leading him to the safety of her designs that was by her design, tugging him along rather nicely and so completely. Deigning to take him there her way as they trudged and trundled, on and on through the encompassing trees.

The trees were snickering, saying something to each other, something, making him wish even more he wasn't here. The trees whispered and her tresses echoed their resinous words, her pink streaks mocking him even.

Admit it, they all seem to be saying to him, you care for her.
While you are at it, the trees also intoned, admit that she is as lovely as your thoughts.

Then they admonished him, hey hi hello, you just stood at the water's edge. Just near enough where the waves touched your toes, almost close enough. Lingering at the threshold, straying on the fringes when the real damn thing, and damned thing indeed, damn her, was within your stupid little mortal grasp.
Rasped the dying trees, within reach you little fool of a man and you had the wherewithal too for that, lucky you. but what can we humble trees say of your head. In your head, you were king too. And rightly so. You stood too long wiggling your toes at the surf. The warm foam lapping up your feet, licking the soles with salt as the salt of memory licked you. No spume brightened the faces; yours or hers. Though you couldn't take what she was spewing at the edge of your old world. You just couldn't resist falling in, could you? Not falling off or falling apart, you didn't dare listen to the ocean that was her sea.

That very song of hers could have been yours. The trees went on, all of it, only yours. But lonely you- alas, you are no white knight nor a White Rabbit for that matter. It is okay to be afraid sometimes, but you sir, are a coward.

The trees were done, but since he wasn't quite undone yet, they went on to do him a huge disservice, furthermore. They replaced each star there ever were with his thoughts. No consent of his required for that kiss of fiction. Those trees, air, and bones that they were. You get tired of them rather quickly, only dottle of them remained, about to be smoked like happiness. Yet those moribund trees dared to actually do that; touch his thoughts. They weren't going to last but their desire to knead something alive was stronger than their boles. However, those trees did show him the stars, so they had his gratitude and many thanks.

And then abruptly, she took him out, pulling him out of there. Just like that, they were out of the woods. But they left something of his, not hers mind you, but his behind in their wake. And the trees took something from him that wasn't him; they got swindled too. So there is that to be cheerful about.

Ergo, little of him was held behind them and something else came with them instead. Something followed them outside as they made their escape from the trees. Something feral, something inky.

Somewhere between the mouth of that deep forest and where he needed to be was his home. Then there was her to be considered. She was with him, but then again, she wasn't.

Where did she go? Look there! Of course, she now stood in the middle of that road, at that junction. She became his other choice.

Two lanes. One leads to her, one leads to home. One leads to nowhere, and that was where he wanted to be.

But in the middle of the middle of his nowhere, there he stood.

- which road to take
- what to choose
-which to trudge
-which is home
-witch is her
-too many forks
-too many bends
in the road
-not enough of them Irish
- which of them to be walked on
- what to trek
-which forested floor to be trodden.
- which path should he forge?
her skin never ends.

Come on now, which foliage to part first. Go on, and there is a river. Do you ford it? And from where to forage from, from whence even, oh, you are so fancy.

After that, crave the stairs out of the Callanish stones, go on make them. But. When to mount them and which of the Ariel poems to recite aloud while on top? In that still moment, read Plath's poetry out loud while this Snow Moon looks on, watching over him.

And

Then. If you must know. And he did. Which of the lips to graze first? Which ones, he really must know. Quick, seriously tell him, he really must know right away. What a culinarily dilemma he faced but he had his preferences, too. Just so you know, and boy do you know.

In form of an answer, the dead leaves rustled tearing out of the branches, dying even more so. They fell from the trees but didn't land on her open palms. Contrary to how he felt that's where all things ended up; in her hands. Though it was her face that he wanted to end on, he couldn't help himself. How could he not? Before her, he didn't know how to end anything. He couldn't find an ending. After all that was once her, he became intimate with his endings, all of them. Looking at her, he can wring out any ending now.

Here we go again, the trees were whispering once more. But this time he was mindful enough to listen.

Can you survive her dreams? They asked him and asked nothing of him. He looked down at his hand still in hers, laced together. Suddenly, he was sure. He nodded curtly, his gesture oddly reminiscent of old forest kings.

I have been thinking about this for a long time now. He told the trees. I have been saying this for a while now. I just realized it and I'm certain of it. These are just bad dreams. In the badlands, those dreaming of us are bound to wake up sooner or later.

He found that the trees were still listening, so he added. I don't know much but I know this. One Day Life will be Her and I'll be Home again. Two separate things, I know but they don't have to be. Anyway, that's my takeaway from all this. From this little walk through these here woods.

Then he told the trees to stop walking with him and get back to their forest. He was no longer their visitor. What an ending but not exactly the end this was.

Look, he said to her. There's a beautiful girl.
She looked at him for the first time within this timeline. Where, she said.

Here.

Doesn't matter. It's all a disappearing act, she told him in earnest.

And he knew as sure as the moon would come out later tonight that a voice can be home too. There was a whole civilization lost in her voice. Lost on that highway. Right now, her voice held a different history of rain within it.

He looked at her again, closed his eyes and let the memories of her flood in the chosen darkness. He looked at her in memory. Then opening his eyes, in actuality. A girl made beautiful in the shallows. He thought if he said that long enough, he'd convince himself as well as her. A beautiful girl, he repeated. Insisted. A beautiful girl, and not just a mere thought or a simple painted memory. And sometimes, that's all you need; shuffle the ivory deck a bit and pick a memory at random. That's all you'll need this winter to snuggle with, a memory and some music to keep you warm and safe. Sometimes a memory is all you have to get by and sometimes that is enough. Sometimes there is enough magic and sometimes magic is enough. Overkill? I agree, Yusra.

He didn't pick where to go really, but she was by his side again and if he let it, she could become the very thing he lost...... to her.

He glanced at her. Speaking of the moon. You know, the moon has turned you into all sorts of beautiful things so many different times. You could do to help the poor thing out once in a while. Even once in a blue moon! That's only fair and proper. Moon has always cherished you for some reason. Moonbows have always been your friend, You have always been such a bitch to her just because you could.

To his surprise, she agreed with him. She accepted his request and the request of the moon.

She looked at him. He looked at her.
They were no longer some paintings waiting to be perfected. They let it go, gelled, and in abandon were once again in a single frame. Nothing framing them there but they wanted to be there on their own and they own that.

The moon was almost out by then, intending to be full tonight, of all nights, full of thoughts of Other Them. But the moon vowed to fill his January with her and promised to pour all of him into her, a solemn promise no matter how unbearable that makes it for her. Moon promptly filled her winter with proper sleep, thus perfecting her wintersleep. The moon still cared about her, him she didn't like anymore. He doesn't listen to her keening anymore. But the moon wasn't worried, all she felt was a relief. Her work done, pleased with herself, the bloated moon hummed happily as the rest of the reality went to righteous sleep.

Oh, you thought this was over? This isn't the end. It's not even a sense of an ending. You know better by now; how whimsical I am about my endings, all of them. Do you hear those drums?

No, it ends with them and it hasn't because nothing ended between them, has it?

No, for years now the Taxman has been warning about the end of days and this is not how everything would go. Maybe things wouldn't go like Robert Barathoen went, but everything will go, all of it.

I have been there, I have been that. I don't want to be that guy again. At least not for a while anyway. but I miss being that guy when the only enemy I had was myself. When there was nothing to hate. I was as optimistic as that rainbowed clown over at HitRECord. Lordy, I love that guy. But there isn't much hope when there is too much to hope for.

A knife to the head works for the living zombies, it should be enough for the overly imaginative too, who are too optimistic about their imaginations. A single thrust of a sharp blade to the temple and you'll have another thing in your skull to twist around and make the sufferings that aren't yours, yours.

I know, you have no coin for this poem but back to those two. Even if they are not seeking any celestial bodies falling from the sky right now nor any shooting star coming their way.

Really, no need for them to be on a lookout for any rocks, Giacobini or the one that had wiped out the ones that were here before us.

As planetary as these two are, they just didn't care which plane they were on. Look at these two, ambling around in the wintry wasteland without a care, walking for their past when it was their future that was looking for them and it was already disappointed with them.. But of course, they weren't really at the South Pole, nowhere near it. Nor south of anywhere, where they should be. The fact is, this is a dream the forest is having.

Now let us return to these misfits, Iwan Rheon less no less, as all the swallows return to Capistrano.

We could have found a place to put your heart if you had found this song sooner. Alight, I am done. I am alright, I am doing OK.

That wasn't how it ended.

So this is how it had happened, this is how it all went down.

She took him off the gamy game trail and taken him to the very edge of the woods. There weren't any decorative hedges around. She didn't even find any overgrowth archways trimmed in Tolkien motifs.

They weren't getting out, she couldn't cut any opening, there was no way out. She wasn't frustrated, she wasn't the one stuck in a memory. She simply didn't care.

Holding his hand, she felt his tension and to her surprise, she found out she still cared about him. Crap, that was unfortunate. She tried again but the trees wouldn't let her, again they blocked her.

She stifled a shriek, she wouldn't panic, she will not despair she was breathing for two. To take his mind off the trees, she had taken him off the trail, pretending their end was in sight. She squeezed his hand tenderly, comforting him.

She would shelter him, protect him as much as she could from her friends. Those friends leered at that, trees didn't tell her she was only imprecating him by delaying the inevitable.

Hard cut to him, just for a second. He felt her struggle to remain hopeful, holding him up, trying to remain his champion. She was with him and still for him. And for him, she was whistling Sigur Ros tunes as she whittled the foliage and pilfer a path just or him. But like the sadness of the sun her music was not enough. Athwart, she was right there side by side and by his side, their shoulders bumping against each other's as they walked, but he distinctively felt her drifting farther and farther away from him. Not to that blighted strange sea this time, no. But away from herself. She was here and she very much wasn't. That was evident. Even if it wasn't. It felt like her mind was on something else, and her heart. His words used to have heart but now it looked like she realized that the words are more than just words. She needed to forget that intimately.
They were walking together but it seemed like she was running away from him. She was barefoot. She was the girl running. She was Passenger's song. He couldn't possibly have that. He wanted to but she wouldn't let go of his hand. What could he do? Her presence limned her absence. Her absence taught him more than her presence ever could.

The past they shared was rotten at this point and by now even he started to feel something was amiss. He was smelling overripe things, dead autumn flowers chief among them. The sense of dread thickened with every step. He couldn't shake the feeling that the dead were walking beside him. He risked a glance. He was no mathematician but in the graveyard utterly devoid of secrets, she was the only one alive. And next to him. That he could see. As Henri Poincaré would say only to him; it is all a fakery but he would point out and say, don't fret and finish. And as unlikely as it seemed he just might have a bullet for her. Though clearly she wasn't his valentine or anyone's.

Alright, children back to the reality that's her. Unfortunately.

All the abandon of the swallows
Raincheck ..... maybe.