Find her in the tall grasses, where the birds leave whispering feathers between the stalks. She will be waiting, gleaming in a trickling remainder of the ocean. Lift her from her resting place, and cradle her, gently.
Place an ear to her lips and listen. Of some slimy thing in the shape of a man hasn't crawled inside, the empty inner chambers of her heart will whisper back like the waves, smelling of salt and jasmine. Sand will trickle lightly, softly within, murmurous, the shivering of grains against the inner curves of her mysteries.
Listen longer, cradling her to yourself in one hand, and think of the wide expanse of grey of the ocean in fall and the matching expanse of the skyscape as the drizzle begins to fall, of the fog in the distance, of the sand under your feet as you move awkwardly into the darkening seaside crescent. The foam will wash over your toes (now bare), your legs (trouser legs now rolled), the halls that sing lullabies.
Turn your mouth to the chamber within her curves and breathe in the tang of the seas, the taste of her lips. Bit by sandy bit, let her fall away between your fingers until the moment has passed.
The song is inside of you now.
Legs firmly planted in the soft tug and withdrawal of her manifold currents, close your eyes and wait for the lingering echo of the sirens and mermaids, and the lullaby of the seashell in the shape of a girl.