The island of self I return to
is washed of all edges, completely
smooth, as if all the loss and struggle
never happened. When a stranger asks
how I came to be here, I have no way
to light the stories of being saved from
myself into a fire that can warm us. No
way to paint the joy of being here across
the sky. I only know that no island is
separate below. Only an island in what
it shows the world. So lay with me in
the sand we’ve given up, that we might
drink what spills from the moon.
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