Escape

If one goes to an island to escape, you’re the boat I use to get there, the shape of your figure the oars, your lips the sails, and your love the oak I tore down with axe in hand, carved for the hull to cut through endless waves. On my journey I’ll sleep in you, care for you so I stay afloat, my sight drawn ahead, to that island I’ve been dreaming of since we first met.

And when I wash ashore I’ll drag you across the sand, one hand gripped in your hair, the other palm open to feel the kiss of the wind. And the finality of this moment will be immense. Absolute. I will feel the sand bite between my toes as the spray of salt finds my skin raw.

And it will be in that vast isolation when I start to question if I was ever in control. In the quiet as dead as the dreams I had dreamt to get there, I’ll hear you laugh, your hair a beautiful tangled web of roots

reunited with the sands.