in another life, I was a crab shuffling on the beaches of La Concha, sifting for trinkets of gold left behind by summer-pass visitors in San Sebastián. My moon is a Black Lilith and shows her best side when the tide comes. On my worst days, I am too hard to love. On my best days, I pay for the check and tell you to order anything you want. On my best days, patience is not the moon not the water but the cracks it flows through to meet the mouth of a river after twenty years of silence. On my best days, love is not the shell not the sand but the crab that skitters through, groping between muddled weeds, grasping for something gold I must give you but cannot yet find the tools to say.
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