ghosts of Titanic, a gothic

Look, here. Where the longing gets soaked into the lace handkerchiefs. The chandelier lights glimmering across the ocean floor, her slender throat perfumed by rosewater and lavender, the most secret of kisses. Shoes of exquisite crimson while hungry fish swim the icy interiors. All cameos and cuttlefish. How the piano keys tinkled as he licked the velvet lining of her ear. The ladies finger the gold rims of broken dishes clinking in smoke-filled rooms. Nothing to do but waltz all night, all porcelain figurines as they pass breathless from gentleman to gentleman. Their braceleted wrists and soft pink cast while the moon floats like an eye above deck. Fillets of brill give way to the terrible sweetness of custard pudding, the inherent ache of ivory buttons and cream satin gloves. The cruel yet delicate exactness of pearls at her neck. How I moaned when you tasted the salt blue on my lips, my thoughts traveling to the men pensive at their brandy decanters, to the darkest of places.