Rough winds bluster.
Your ghost is caught in the stones and grasses here, even though you’re gone. Memory is tangled in time, imprinted in this land: in me and on you — drowned in our blood.
Running takes you only so far, even to what one might call paradise in a perfect future. While your past chases, through time and space and place. But it’s in you. No escape.
You’ve turned yourself into a void, an island like this place, away from us. Away from me. My crime is to have stood up for you and reached out a hand in the ruins you’ve left. Now, I hold a handful of pieces of imperfect memories.
Sparrows soar in a cloud above.
What my hand grasps is the wind and the air, and the dust of time that blows grit from the meadows and the ruins, cast into my eyes and gritted in my teeth. Recent decay mixes with the old, seasons turn to slumber and sleep. This place vibrates with us.
Tanned legs and blue and dust.
This place still stands as testimony. Because time doesn’t just hit you, my island. It hits me and us drifting in the ocean crying for landfall, having dared love you, left trying to understand. Somehow, you’ll go on, doing what you do, in the new and verdant.
Do I remain in your mind? Was I ever there?
You remain in mine, foolishly. And I wait for summer to return once again, tied back in a string of winters.