The ship pulls me east
over the deep blue.
Wind and water whisper…
unintelligible but crystal clear.
As the shore disappears
the tugboat retreats.
Anchors, ropes, docks;
all restraint is gone.
There is just the wind
playing with the waves.
On a small paper
I write to them:
I surrender.
I remember the jungle gym of childhood
Crusted yellow paint and the smell of dirt
Grasping the air, I missed a bar
Complete chaos for seconds
Now my hair is wet, warm and thick
Tears well up, but nobody sees them
The nearest person is too far to hear
When you were close enough, I cried
You carried me to the car
I felt vinyl and rumbling
The light of the ER was hot,
like the needle that numbed me
Six stitches fixed me
Ice cream felt good on my lips
You ate it with me,
but you’re lactose intolerant
I stare into my coffee,
watching the cream swirl
as it dissolves into hot blackness.
My coffee is kinder than your eyes,
cutting through my paper heart,
poking holes in my confidence.
I start to fumble words;
enourmous wooden blocks
made of feelings too heavy for
an infant’s hands.
One turn after another,
I spiral down…
like the cream.
Finally I dissolve,
and fade into who you think I am.