There hasn’t been any mail for a week.
Not a sausage.
No texts, no notifications, no semaphore signals.
Not a beep of Morse code, nor a beat of drum.
Smoke signals have been significant for their absence.
She’s happy though.
Incognito.
Cuddled in her own cocoon.
Enveloped in emptiness.
Rock bottom.
But.
There are fish.
And seaweed.
And shells.
There are always fish, seaweed and shells.
Poseidon’s pencils.
Neptune’s notebooks.
A mermaid’s memories.
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