Nadia Faye

Our final night, our night of spilling, I called you angel and let your wishes collect all over my most tender parts.

Faint light, old friend 

Soon you’ll be in Norway - Soon you’ll be gone forever 

I press my fingertips to the parting of my ribcage, through many layers, reaching the place the soul separates, emanates. The softness between bone and structure, the source of the ache that comes around when you do. 
 

At night I play whale music, and I show you the entirety of my salt warm, milk white ocean. A symptom of my longing 

In my own interior, I find myself in water movements. I am sticky, reflexive, disembodied.

Beyond the widow’s house, where the light was left unkept, the porch lamp flickering through the night in quick, frantic bursts, stood the women in white—pale, saintly ghost.

shedding earthskin, becoming something else entirely. Eyelids flitting, abstract colorways, water shapes, everywhere light.

Imogen ascends from her body in a nightly ritual, a recurring fever dream. Her breath carries her upwards, with every inhale she can feel herself rise. Her consciousness drifts as she fades in and out of sleep, reality blurs.

I want to be rid of these corporeal attachments entirely—to be rid of my body, to dance within your bloodstream and flit about your pulses.