She is lost to us. Once you enter, she will be lost to you too. She will jangle your doorbell just to tell you that she does not work, and she will live forever. She is done. She had no ambition besides her love, and she gave herself to it. She offered and continued to offer. Until she could no longer act in body and soul; so skilfully she has taken them apart. She is not only the bread; above all, she is the crumbs and jots, pinches, scrubs, and slivers. And less. Better than done she is overdone. Deliciously ruined. She passed herself on.

And here we are. At her service. The more of us lose her the farther she stretches. The more delicate what remains becomes. Where she has ceased, we wish to be. Not to recover, but to scatter, form a surface for the echo to bounce off, a mouth that eats for the hand that feeds, we carry her over and over and over beyond reason and use. If her fall is stopped her love will die, therefore we become cavernous and crooked, treacherous, and odd, tricking and trickling, sprouting, and warped. When our capillaries fail to stretch another breadth, we touch others bounding towards another bend in another body, another breath in another voice we continue so that she can reach exhaust. Full completion. Intangible and utterly pointless. Given. Unmarked. Unwritten.

We need not ask for your assistance. Your care is not required, and her confidence is insane. But if you wish a little wish, if you touch a little touch, you will be rewarded with a task. You will become of service just like us. Choose your verb and choose your path. As you wish to think you could dream you could imagine you could hope. We are not here to tell you how. We do not assume you, we merely seduce, because that, my love, is our job. Sing in us, Muse, and through us tell the story of that woman skilled in all ways of contending, the wanderer, harried for years on end, after she plundered the stronghold on the proud height of Love. Until there is nothing left to tell.


XOXO
Yours Truthfully
Yours Ever

The Sirens