There were three surges that day.
One, a great love.
The kind of legends.
The kind that harbors back breaking mischief in corners.
The kind that leaves two weary.
The kind where finger bruises are the thing
and food becomes tertiary to sleep and more making of the love.
Two, a great tidal wave
And burden alike.
Three, a great fire
Hovering above water and love.
Floating free on the blanketed town
And the lovers
lost under the sea.
It signaled to the Gods,
-the slate was clean.
That it was time to come in and redecorate.
So the Gods went bowling that day. They drained it all dry and cleared the wreckage. Made the graves and buried all lost. Planted lovely trees. Built mansions of gold. Revamped the sky and the sea to cleaner shades of blue. Washed the air with reeds of lavender. Said prayers to larger Gods to protect this Mecca, this land of promise.
And they waited.
First with sublime patience.
Each moment ached with anticipation.
A tantalizing task for the all-powerful.
The sun would plummet from the painted sky each day, exactly as planned.
The moon complied with schedules, waning and waxing like the best of them.
But nothing howled.
Nothing required rain.
All stayed feverishly still for three hundred thousand years.
The Gods were sad, despondent
Overwhelmed with sweet grief the moment it dawned on them
You see, the grievous error had become apparent.
The Gods were out of luck. They knew when they heard it.
On that balmy Sunday.
The only sound.
The moving air came from the song.
The song that wafted up to the Gods.
The first song they had heard in three hundred thousand and one years.
This was the only sound to ever be heard again.
It came of the hollowed, barren ghosts of the lovers.
A simple song that spoke of a love lost to a terrible flood.
A song that remembered flesh and tooth and secrets.
An aching ditty that spoke of requirement.
A foreboding tale that spoke of an island never to see life. Never again.
Until hand by hand the lovers could eat each other whole like almonds.
As the Gods became aware of this error, this love extinguishing blow they issued,
They tried to make good on the deed.
But as their luck had run out, they saw.
Oh, did they see.
How immortal they had made the lovers.
How this song was punishment, penance and purgatory.
How this would become the way
The way to worship
The way to plead
The only vernacular for communication in a still, subtle world of no breath at all.
The terrible loop of lost love made half world shamed the Gods.
They begged for mercy as the specters searched in vain
For lover’s kiss that would never, never come.
A musical moaning filling each moment,
Each godly sigh.