when the old clock strikes north and the chinook winds shift west, he stills at his cold bread and butter perch, fluttering like a bee for his midnight girl. she floats down, all lanky and smooth, plump and tall, purple and soft chiffon blue. deftly, he takes his finger from its stringent clasp on the sandwich and traces over the constellations in her deep, dark cheeks. he decides to name the star by her right eye “aquila” and the one nestled by the corner of her upturned pink lip “altair”. plus, if you squint closely enough, you’ll see the silver cowherd and the golden weaver in all their glory, reaching their arms out for each other in a grand, painted scene. once your eyes reblur, it morphs into a beautiful mess of sparkle on the apples of her cheeks. but, when she finishes eating the bread and butter and has already devoured all the red strawberries and picked the perfumed mint stalks for her hair, his midnight girl floats to the fat stretch of a grimy gorge of sand and wretched, twisted rock in front of her, looking out at the ragged edge. he tucks his lips by the corner of her ear and whispers that the irish (those pirates, of course) would call the two of them “go siorai”, and maybe one day he could find a strong, wooden pirate ship, you know, the ones his father finds in the depths of his aquamarine castle, and sail them away.

oh, i don’t want to leave, his midnight girl shrugs, all the while she twists at her stringy silver locks and shivers when sea meets sand and shrinks away if her eyes stay on the edge of the world too long. too far, too much, too little, not enough. but she knows she will have to eventually – but then after, the only thing to do after will be to return. still, he only smiles, and it seems to be the only thing he ever does these days. her sunset boy takes her to the tip of the sands, not the bulk of it, and it’s more pretty, she thinks, than the crackling brown and yellow and grey, tears in the dirt dust, from before. now, it’s all dotted in pink smiling circles and stretched five legged funny things his midnight girl thinks is waving at her. a breeze puffs out from the east, softly spraying salt water onto her toes, tickling between the nails and burying into the pores of her skin, creating a small star between her pinkie and fourth toe. when she smiles, altair grasps onto aquila, pressing their palms together as their hearts beat as one congratulatory thump.

her seaside boy lets her head rest on his shoulder, her sky seeping through his linen shirt and burrowing deep down in the crevices of his chest, finding a seemingly suitable home between a stern sea angel rib and his proud heart. that home builds upwards with haste, sideways leisurely, and finally decides to creep down as the nearby, throbbing vessel beats once, twice, thrice, and it speeds up the work even faster as his midnight girl decidedly takes her hand and intertwines it with his, blue thread slotted in silver needle. clammy meets calm as glimmering eyes meet a soft, welcoming face with edges and lines and curves like the greek statues he’s heard of, lounging in the temples. the ones with the flocks of crowds, like baby chicks ogling and gazing and running their eyes over every fine detail, every carved hair, every fold of skin. and, sitting on the pink smiling sands, he realizes her eyes seem more purple than red, smudged with venus’ kisses, all large and striped and strawberry flavored.

his midnight girl lifts her chin first. her skin laughs and giggles and squeaks and whimpers and cries and pleads as she runs the tips of her pinky nail along his face, chin, neck, arms, and to the tips of his hands, releasing her own from her seaside boy as her bones chatter. she knows its far too soon, but it already feels like persephone is collecting her three bags and a pomegranate and he is awaiting her fateful return to him as a flushed chill fills the air, and the land they sit on is no sitting land anymore. the sands clamor above her wrists as she pushes her heels upward, wrestling against the grains burying themselves in her skin. i’m sorry, his midnight girl whispers softly, lips barely parting, and the sands slink away, hissing as first morning strike of the blue-green misty wave pushes against the sands, melting them into a soggy, yellow sloop. the water erased it all, without fail. water did that sometimes, she would come to realize. open those sleeping eyes, a little mouse inside her cries, but her seaside boy looks so peaceful, she replies silently, and even though his midnight girl wants to feel the glimmer in his pupils before she departs, she can’t bear shutting them after.

he wakes up feeling a glow on his face, as eos cheers and shouts in triumph and paints the sky in faint reds, blushing oranges, and crying-out-loud pinks, helios leading the charge with speckles of melting yellowed candle wax flicking across his too-wide canvas, while he parades in his too-blinding carriage. he puts a sea glass shard beside his knee, watching as it reflects the golden carriage on the bubbling, frothing waters, and he swears to the sea and the nimble creatures within that he sees his midnight girl, sitting idly and twisting her silver locks, perching a single nail out to scrape the canvas and reveal a mystery undercoat of purple and blue hues showering across the sky and falling onto the land in hydrangea flowers and bluebells wisps. the pink sands smile as her seaside boy spies a glimpse of the streak of blue across the sky, and feels the pang of midnight in his heart.