IV. SOMETHING SUBSIDIARY

She might think:

This thing . . . yesterday . . . So far away. It’s made out of too many departures and fewer returns. Real farewells take place in silence. Yesterdays are lived by two large opposing groups. Remainers and departers. Their mirrored gestures seldom answered. Most of the time not really. The footsteps of those who leave have a different stretch and charge in comparison with the cramped, anguish-bearing expressions of the men left behind. The smell of tar-smeared boats, seaweeds and gutted fish stings the hidden tears at departure time. The silver shields of choppy ocean water one can see inside those humid eyes of suppressed sorrow. Certainly above everything else . . . the ancient snake of time uncoils silently, invisibly, imperceptibly treacherous . . . Hunting horns of half spoken unfinished words. Hands, arms, and bodies trying to touch one another. Colors, full of grayish light. Ardent grace of shared somberness. Palm trees . . . flat-palmed and waving. Summer nights demand departures . . . Glances get so soft. So full of dying sunset spillage. The joy of sadness reigns and seize the moment, feeds the lantern of unstaged reactions. To reunite the chariots of no returns is a paradoxical hoax . . . Embalmed illusions. Soon death will reconfirm and seal the deal for all departures. But waves will dominate the ocean. As usual . . . the cooling streams of shapeless plankton will ring the bell for very basic breakfast. And then the widened nostrils, lips in search of different lips, a forest of sun-burned and salty stares . . . An agony of love gone numb before the last good-bye, takes place. Thick lace of real human fear. The fateful moment fate awaits.

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