saltwater eulogies for distant lands fester in my mouth; the sores make it hard to talk sometimes.
for the sake of Penelope i will not weep over receding tides. instead i kneel resolute, and lick the salt from my palms. with barren hands i will wring handfuls of sand from my lank tresses, and keep the fires burning.
loneliness ebbs and flows like the tide. waves kiss the shore too exuberantly, hurting themselves in their desperation to hold onto their grounding. trails of white foam bleed across shifting sands, the lingering touch of your palms against mine.
i am learning the language of driftwood - of hermit ***** and burrowing, in wearing the weight of empty rooms on my back.