Love will tear us apart.
Love will tear us apart again.
His name is Marzipan, and his game is dreams that
melt in the rain and wilt in the sun. He shimmers
with beauty. He is the beautiful and the damned.
He is like a bird. Like some bird that wanders on
the beach, dancing with the girls who come late at
night to the water's edge. To the edge of the world.
To watch the diamonds. To see the phosphorescent diamonds.
The closer they get, the more elusive they become.
It is tranquil and it is blue - misty rare and blue, and
the air is thin yet weighted down with a shimmering luminous
presence that pervades all - like the light of a full moon
shining down on the sea in Spain.
In the early morning the dawn comes into the sky, and the
sea is pink and green like icing on teacakes. Like some kind
of dreamy dress for a dreamy girl on a dreamy night in a
dreamy ballroom. There are couples spinning spinning. The
gowns of the ladies are like cotton in the fields
in the wind. Like gauze. The gentlemen wrap their arms
around the waists of the delicate girls - the scent
of a mystical garden rising from their hair.
“Well you sure can dance. I’ll tell you that.”
The last words he ever spoke to her. The very last words
that he ever spoke to her. Teagardens on the moon.
These foolish things. Gardenia. The scent of roses. The song
the wind sings. How sweet to find you still.