After many a day we entered the cinnamon-scented harbour lights of your eyes to rest a breath in concordance with the lilac eve of your spirit and mine; tides will move like rhythmic bowels and I will sail. But have I the command to order the anchor anymore anymore after you? And you? Will you stand dry-eyed knee-deep in the debris of our concordance on the isolated shore slowly waving a diminishing heart that lingers a powdered hope in your innermost veins or will you be thinking of the next passenger-boat?