the wind, brash against my ears, is filled with
a hundred collapsing moments in one breath
sometimes, i wonder if standing at the brink of water nipping
my ankles like razors
will teach me not to get cut;
if submerging my arms, my toes, the bridge of my nose
will suffocate the voices:
not enough. not the man. not the time. not the one.
if lacing my limbs with the tide taught me how to swim,
will watching the sea grasp at the shore,
fingers slipping through its ghost
remind me that no matter how many times
i come back to him, i will only be pulled away?
or will the restless beat in my chest,
seeing through a rose-colored lens
fancying itself a detective of crimes to the heart,
find the stubborn swells dripping with possibility
in each sand-soaked promise to come again?
feathered stars dot a snow-covered sky and i wonder
if i stare for long enough, will i learn how to fly?
wouldn’t that be a lovely thing–
to finally lose sight of the shore
in search of a horizon line better than the one
we have carved between us?
in search of a place where the waves make no promises,
unfolding only onto themselves?
