GYROSCOPE

At night, when you’re sleeping, and the whole world is sleeping around you, the sea rises. Its salty tongues come in, silently, into towns and cities, into houses and parking lots, through driveways and backyards; it flows into dark bedrooms and studies. It stops for a moment, for a deep breath, collecting its harvest, before slowly retracting its hands across the sleeping land.
And in those faithful hands, thousands of empty bottles filled with desperate notes, written for the sea to gently carry, flow out of the night.
And the sea will rage and foam at the mouth, and crash the bottles against the rocks, and the notes will soak, and then dissolve, and the ink will stain the sea blue for as long as there are people.

The sea in constant fury grinds bones into fine powder.
Sailors, Damned drifters,
The cigarette glow…
Your last visible lighthouse.