Canada 2.
The shape of pines. They stay vibrant against solely starlight. Conversations with the tide, murmuring splendor-drunk affection. Whooshes of light wind, flapping bat wings, a distant tintinnabulating buoy. Night is a kinetic blue jean, green-black blanket.
The waves and the sky collaborated on this circuitous yarn, an undulating love affair, grappling glances spanning billions of miles. Slow dancing to Spiritualized until the end of time.
They didn’t do it for the money, they did it because their co-existence relies upon beauty and respect. Love is blind belief coupled with intransigent logistics. The sacrifice makes sense.
(Someone started booing in the back of my mind. A unmitigated jagoff from the cerebellum bleachers. I should really learn how to shut myself up.)